I look at my hands, and I stretch my fingertips out before me
Twist and turn my wrist to inspect them
See the slender digits flex and bend to my will
Run my thumb along the crescent moons of my nails in validation:
They are sharp now, sharp enough to be instruments as I drum them against a desk
Sharp enough to be weapons
Eczema, believe it or not, is torture
I look at my hands; see little constellations of bruises and cuts
I trace the braille across my wrist, unable to read something I’ve never been accustomed to, despite it being an almost constant companion
It comes and goes like a fair-weather friend and always arrives when it is never wanted
In summer, when temperatures climb up buildings and trees
I find myself not just allergic to pollen, but to myself
In winter, I peel off small bits of layers to reach for places that won’t mind the cold as much
Reaching and searching quick as chilled air finds a break in the defenses
You asked me what was wrong; that if I was sad I could do whatever I wanted, even towards you
I would never hurt you
My anger, my sadness, is directed towards myself
I want to feel the rush of hurling myself at walls
Want to feel the thud of skin against bone against hollow plaster and wooden frame
I want to feel nails run down fabric; soft, thin and fragile
Want to see them tear things apart, see feathers spill out or paint chip, all jagged and frantic
I want this and I don’t want this
I glide nails across skin, across rashes along my hand
I find myself stagnant as my joints itch for action

My morning glory
Would be to wake up beside you
Just as the sun stretches and yawns,
Its arms reaching past blanketed mountains to brush the sleep away from your eyes
A peaceful surrender and a lone fanfare from the horns and sirens below,
The roads ever branching,
Taking roots in cities and towns away from where we are.
The world is awake before us, but my whole world wakes up to your open eyes
And past them, I see universes that I will never be a part of.
We are magic, we are as light as fragments of matter drifting through strings of sunshine
And in this moment, although we are small, we exist.

My heart is the engine that willed the bus to move
Racing down the road until I get to you

I think the only reason why I still love you is because you were the only man who reminded me of my father.
It’s weird to think that in this world that we live in, one with no need for the likes of you in the field of Psychology,
It's weird to think that, in a way, maybe you were right about something.

I’m not sure
But I feel like bridging the gap between you just to stand on the edge of it and jump off
But jumping off of it is something I want and don’t want to do
But you’re so different and I’m so tired
And we’re both bored kids during lonely winter nights
They call it ‘summer love’
But except for summer holidays and warm weather, there’s not much I enjoy about it
It’s odd, but I've never been drawn to the cold weather until this year
Even though the sweetest things have happened when snowflakes quietly blanket everything
Hushing the world to stop and rest
Weighing down the boughs of evergreens ever so slightly
When houses smell of gingerbread and vanilla and the shadows of candlelight flickers on the wall
It’s always been a romantic season, even if the weather outside is frightful
But it reminds me of the boy with the camera in his hands, taking pictures of everything so it wouldn't feel like we were miles away
And that boy with the camera is still just miles away
And the photographs are just photographs, and those have stopped for about a year or more
I’m trying to be patient, trying to calm this heart of mine
Because it’s fickle, and although it enjoys the glitter of the Christmas season
It shivers in the winter and will snuggle up to anyone except to me

Dear boy on the bus
You had to sit beside me, today of all days
My hair a mess
Bundled up in a black winter jacket
Acne and tired eyes
It had to be today of all days, didn't it

Dear boy on the bus,
From my peripheral vision I saw a golden mop of hair, which I find to be attractive on the male species
I’d call you an angel, but  I don’t even know if you were attractive
I’d glance over at you from time to time, only because I was afraid you’d notice

Dear boy on the bus,
I don’t know whether or not to call you a boy or a man,
Because at this age, we’re younger than we look but older than we feel

Dear boy on the bus,
they say age is just a number, but it’s also just a word,
But I’d feel weird if you were younger than me all the same

Dear boy on the bus,
Do you realize how loud your music was playing? Apparently not, since it lulled you to sleep
Even if it was a few decibels lower, heavy metal isn't what comes to mind when I think of ‘lullabies’
I stole glances at you and your sleeping face, praying slightly that the bus would do a wide enough turn so that your head would sort of rest against my shoulder, even though I’m a lot shorter than you

Dear boy on the bus,
You could sit anywhere else after a few stops. I might have been a little hurt if you moved, but it’s normal.
So why didn't you?

Dear boy on the bus,
With bags on my lap, I felt closed in: I was too afraid to move, too afraid to touch you—I felt my arm brush against your sweater through my jacket and my stomach did somersaults
It’s not that I didn't want to touch you, but I didn't want sparks to be sent through my body—my mind was already going wild with the many scenarios playing in my head as we sat there.

Dear boy on the bus,
My heart was shivering as my stop got closer
I didn't want to leave before you did
I imagined you didn't want me to leave either

Dear boy on the bus,
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to text a friend about you, but I was afraid you’d notice.
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to write about you—would you think me a poet? Or a creep?

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish you said something

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish I said something

Dear boy on the bus,
When my stop came and we awkwardly got up, I wonder if you thought my sheepish smile meant something, or anything at all.

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?