I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But I admit, there’s something about the way the bird in my chest starts to sing your name and I pray you can’t hear it with every step I take away from you.

Instead of meeting yours, my eyes wander away together, because they have better things to do than have pointless conversations— I shush them and push them slowly towards you, because those “pointless conversations” are the only ones we have

There’s nothing really remotely handsome about you. In fact, I can see your mother whenever I look at you: the long bridge of your nose, the mischievous twinkle in your eyes, you were a total momma’s boy, but I remember hearing of adventures with your father—skiing, hiking, camping—all rugged outdoors-y activities that I could only dream of doing or even enjoying.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But there’s something about the way you touched my hand briefly that made my ears burn—perhaps you were a lit candle, and I was an ice sculpture of nothing in particular, so when we touched I cried out in pain, but I wanted to bring you closer

There’s this tone in your voice when we talk, and it speaks nothing of love at all—not for me, or anyone in the room. You talk to me as you would a child, a young girl, your sister’s best friend—and I am all of that. I should learn to be content with that

I remember hearing about a girl in your life, and I don’t think I knew what to feel. I shared in with sisters’ and your mother’s teasing whispers about her, in their hushed laughter. I didn't share what another part of me felt—something strange and twisty, like licorice, and no matter how long you chewed on it, it never got smaller, never disappeared, but it did manage to leave a strange taste in your mouth.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But nothing stopped me from going up to my sister last night to tell her: “I think I have a problem.” I like to think of myself as “reasonable”, but no matter what I thought, I couldn't reason with myself. I couldn't find the exact moment, the exact word, and the exact reason for why I felt this about you.

We've known each other since your sister and I were small. Even then, I avoided you, and you did the same. There was nothing we could talk about—you were into sports and I was into dolls. I’d hide away with your sister in our imaginary lands, and you were probably at hockey practice, but you were the first boy I've talked to and that scared me.

What am I to you, anyway? I've been told I was a part of the family…do you think so too? Do you follow the unspoken rules like I’m desperately trying to? Do you wonder, at all? I try to block you out of my thoughts, push you away as if you were like vegetables on my plate. There’s nothing about you, logically speaking, that should make me think about you.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you. So why is this happening?

The years first snowflake
Lands on the face of a boy,
Not quite yet a man,
Who's yet to figure out where he stands

His brown irises scan the background
For a sign of what he's lost
Looking past his breath, into the frost,
He expects to find something, anything,
Profound

His hands curl in his pockets,
Fingers numb with cold
Spinning a heart shaped locket,
Feelings the memories, etched in gold
A place inside for a photograph
Of a lover or mother or brother,
He has none of these anymore,
Won't let remembrance and mourning
Pull him under,
He continues on his path

“You can’t go.”
His hand gripped my wrist, an urgency in his voice. We had been best friends since we first met in second grade, and our relationship had taken a sudden (and maybe one could go as far as to say inevitable) turn freshman year of high school. And yet here I was, about to storm out on the anniversary of our first date 2 years later. His eyes, the warm brown that could melt me from across the room, pleaded me to stay. To forget any wrongdoings, and misunderstandings, and the past ten minutes where I imagined the anger in our voices carried throughout the park. It was supposed to be a picnic, the romantic kind, because he knew I always fell for the romantic, no matter how cheesy it was in reality. And maybe that’s why I liked it so much— it provided an escape.
“I know you. No one else knows you like I do.”
And it was true, to some extent. He had seen me at my best, and at my absolute worst. He knew that I twirled my hair when I was nervous, that I made wishes on ladybugs and stars and 11:11, that I couldn’t sing for my life (and nevertheless belted out, Don’t Stop Believing in the car every time it came on the radio, despite his begging for mercy). He knew where I got the tiny half-moon scar on my ankle and was there for every bone I had ever broken in my elementary school days, knew that I consistently cry through the entire movie Titanic, and that when my dad moved out of the house, it left me slightly broken inside.
But he didn’t know me like he thought he did. And he never really would, because what he didn’t realize is that there is a kind of perpetual loneliness in living. Everyone has their own innermost thoughts and dreams, the ones that they are too ashamed or confused by to speak aloud. Thoughts that no one but themselves are, and ever will be, privy to. They are hidden behind more widely-known and impersonal facts, and others can only see so deep into another’s soul. Therefore, to claim that we “know” someone is never a completely truthful statement. We can memorize their full name, birthday, favorite color. Their favorite book, bad habits, and mannerisms. But, just like one can never truly empathize with another, incapable of understanding what another has gone through in a complete sense, we can never know a person in their entirety. Some get close, best friends, family, lovers. But to say that we know that person, have walked along the boundaries of their mind, would be an impossible feat.
Within the shielded confines of my mind, I could admit that all I wanted in life was to have a love that an artist might be inspired to illustrate, or an author might yearn to capture in written words. A love that was worth replicating. And I didn’t believe that a love like that could come from assumptions, a guessing game. For that’s all that this was, really. We’d known each other for so long, but nevertheless I couldn’t help take offense in the fact that he thought he knew everything about me. Those lovers I read about, they never lost interest in each other. And that was the whole point— a wanting to learn new things about the each other everyday, and a love so deep that they would want to keep learning for the rest of their lives. And if he thought differently, than maybe it was wrong. Maybe God or the stars or whatever it is that sent us flailing into this world, searching for something or someone to grasp on to, didn’t want us to happen. I had convinced myself time and time again, as naïvely as a child, that every relationship  I had would be the one that would become something wonderful. But here I was, facing my supposed love, and he was convinced of something that I knew would eventually ruin us. So I looked him in the eye when I said, “No. No you don’t. We’re strangers, don’t you see?”
But he didn’t. I could see it in his eyes, in his returning gaze.
Maybe he could learn, if he wanted.
But I guess he didn’t want, either, because he bent down and picked wicker basket, still filled with food, draped the blanket over his arm and walked away.

i'm pretty sure
this is one of
the wisest pieces
of advice
i've seen

well meaning, anyway.

i walk alone
and it's a strange thing

every single time
i begin walking
i have an intense urge
to bust a move
and dance to the
music in my ears

but that would be
like feeding the animals

so i don't do it.

i am suspicious
when i walk alone
so i am constantly glancing
behind me
preparing to fight

in my mind
i am a fantastic fighter
my body moves
in deadly arcs
i can turn
anything
into a weapon
and i will
d r o p
any fool that
comes near me

i am an animal.
i shouldn't be fed
with crazy daydreams
but i keep. getting. fed.
and once i've been fed
i just want to eat more

the desire is overwhelming.

every few days
i consider taking up
a new hobby
like smoking,
or a destructive
non-committal attitude

but i always decide
not to feed
this animal
anything

but words.