here's the thing:
I know I am needy and jealous,
and my skin is only pretty in the summer,
and my hair frizzes more often than not,
and my nose is too big for conventional beauty

I know that I talk funny a lot,
and my body is disproportionate
(just like my music taste),
and I never really know what I'm talking about,
and my hands are always cold and clammy

I know that I apologize too much (sorry),
and that I usually make a big deal out of nothing,
and that I usually look angry,
even when I'm happy

I know that my exuberance is hard to handle,
and that I am easy to disappoint
and easy to be disappointed in,
and that I lose motivation too quickly,
and that my smile is too often late and clumsy

I know all these things aren't so great,
(and I know of many more),
but I know that
I am caring and loyal
and my skin gets tan
and warm and filled with sunlight
and my eyelashes are long and full
and when I smile for real,
it is sincere and warm and genuine

I know that I hold myself to higher standards,
and that I get very passionate about little things,
and that I read a lot more than most

I know that I am compassionate and considerate,
and find happiness in the smallest details

And I know that I am hardworking
(when I need to be),
but I also know how to relax,
and I can handle my own burdens
(as well as some of yours)

so between the pros and cons,
I hope someone will someday
find it in their heart
to fall in love with me
as I have done with you

I am not an original and that is exactly my problem. I fall in love with types of people I've never seen before, people with interesting names and scars and stories, people whose eyes or hair or hands are unforgettable, people who speak and leave their words stamped onto the edges of your ribs and the tissues of your brain, people who are so unapologetically who they are that it's impossible not to be intoxicated by them. And I am. Intoxicated, I mean. I meet these people and become fixated on the way their necks flow into their shoulders and the way their knuckles are scarred from the kind of accomplishments I will never know and the way that they are so different from anything I know. I meet these people, so many of them, and at the end of the day I lie on my floor trying and failing not to fall apart because I can't get them out of my system and I will never be in theirs. They are so unapologetically who they are, and I apologize for every word that comes out of my mouth and every gesture I make. When I was younger I just wanted to be accepted, so I tried so hard to be like everyone else and now that I want to be my own person, I can't. I am a repeat of every song I have ever heard, an echo of every word ever said to me, a copy of every book I have ever read. I am walking plagiarism, and that fact of my existence is what causes me to tear myself apart in a useless effort to build myself up to something new.

i cry to feel emotion

to sympathize
to confirm my mortality
to express joy
to release bottled up
     hate, sadness, guilt

but the worst is when i cannot cry
i beg the tears to trickle down my face,
only for me to wipe them away

the absence of them
makes me feel like
my sentiments aren’t true
     they’re fraud, phony, insincere

if i can’t control or understand my own tears
why should i expect someone
to dry them for me?

because i can’t explain
why they’re present in one instance
and absent in the next

library books;
     the musty smell floods me with
     thoughts of its past readers
     did a girl like me
     run her finger across this line
     as i have?
     will our lines like vines
     ever intertwine?

rainy nights;
     while the tip-tap and dribble of
     droplets hit my windowsill,
     i imagine gusts of wind
     dancing with one another:
     carless and free
     and without destination

light touches;
     the accidental bump of elbows,
     the awkward entanglement
     of fumbling phalanges,
     a gentle squeeze of the hand,
     a comforting gesture that says
     “i am here.”

now reverie this:
     you and i,
     the spines of our books broken,
          our shoulders barely brushing,
               the sound of soft and subtle raindrops
          all things i adore in one simple
      and seemingly endless moment

books, rain, touches, and you

there are
so many meadows
i have not
so many roads
i have not
so many mountains
i have not
so many songs
i have not
so many books
i have not
so many hearts
i have not

so many
i have not

so many
i have

so many
i forget
so many
i do not see