You can
Ignore me
all you want
but
I know
you're only
doing it because
you're still
in love
with me

he wasn't
exactly
what I expected
him to be  

he kept his hair short and messy,
wore funny clothes and enjoyed
comic books, Daft Punk and
ginger-lemon-tea-brewing
of all things
and bless,
he thought his earrings
made him seem tough

In the end, it was
his confidence
that won me over
his smiley eyes
so seamlessly dissolved
my doubts and skepticism
and took with
them,
unexpectedly,
my heart

the kisses he'd plant on my forehead would
drag me into
his silly world where
wonderfully weird hats were worn seriously  
and music played on our
candy-coloured 2000s cd player
while we read together
on the couch

he offered to massage
my feet and I blushed and thought
that I was falling for him and
he laughed and pulled me
close into his chest
while I wept with joy
for I'd found  
happiness

maybe I didn't want to kiss you
maybe it just didn't feel right
your hand up my top
and your other on my thigh
maybe it felt strange
maybe I preferred us as friends
maybe it was foolish to think
that a boy and a girl
could just be friends
maybe I was wrong

when I told you I was *****
I was drunk and sad
and you said
that you were so sorry
and held me as  
I cried into your shoulder

you still look at me funny
you're conscious
of your hands
and voice
of whether you
reveal too much
conscious
that you shouldn't treat me
any differently

that our awkward
bus stop talks
and
empty locker-conversations
are palatable
and that the alternative
isn't

but
I wish you'd bring it up
because
I think
it feels
immeasurably worse
to move on
when we've made
such little progress
moving anywhere
that is

“Who are you?”
my sleepy mind mocks me

It tears holes and ties knots
It drips and oozes and makes toxic puddles
contaminating confidence, daily

Instagram is a persona maintained for an audience that seldom claps
100 whistles for
smart captions, pretty faces, good lighting
over-exposed and contrasted, highly saturated filters-
and roses for cleavage

my distorted caricature

I’m learning the new language of love
It’s cloudy and I’ve only
broken sentences
already-fluent in the tongue of
drunk hook-ups and
meaningless touches and
compromised endeavors and
disguised intentions

I have never felt what I was promised
I want to bathe myself in it
showers
pools
seas
of infatuation
if it exists

desperate for affection
addicted to the idea
that a soul could long for me

craving something
anything

unreliable arousal
am I unfairly deprived?