I know how I will meet my soulmate: I have gone over it a hundred times, told it to all my friends,
and they all agree.

There will be a club, or a bar, or a party, some dim-lit place with colored lights, cold glasses if we've graduated past solo cups,

I will be there with a friend or two, because I am not an idiot, but we will not hang on each-other like we do now, because we will be a little more like adults.

So I will be alone, when it happens: There will be an *******, like there always is, some man who smells like beer and entitlement,
drunk and leering at me.

And I will scowl, my fists ready at my sides, not a wallflower and not a doormat, words ready on my tipsy lips.

But then there he is, shooting out of nowhere as the ******* reaches for me, the frantic chaos of a fight erupting in the middle of the room as they go at it, lasting until someone shouts loud enough to find a man big enough to throw them both out.

For a moment, I wait as they are hustled out the door, I wait by the window or the door as I can hear the ******* yelling something as his slurred voice fades away, I wait and I look back at my friend who nods to me, her face a puzzle under the colored lights.

"Be careful," she mouths at me and I nod, pulling open the door to let in the night, pulling down my short skirt as I step out onto the sidewalk to see him sitting there on the curb, looking up at the sky.

I sit down beside him and look at him for the first time, his face lit up by the nearby streetlight, the neon signs of cheap restaurants, and he is beautiful and his smile is a permanent smirk and his dark hair is a perfect mess and his eyes are dark like mine and he looks at me and is puzzled.

"Thank you," I say, and then: "Are you okay?"

He turns his head towards me and I can see the blood on his face, his split lip trailing a dark line down his neck, a stripe across his right cheek making him look like some kind of warrior, and his jacket is dark, almost too big for him, for he is not a large man at all, much smaller than the ******* had been.

"It's nothing," he says with a smile, and he looks at me as if he has never seen anyone like me before, and we introduce ourselves and we talk and the stars come out in the narrow strip of sky between the buildings, and when a crazy man lopes down the street, he takes my hand and pulls me to his side, instantly alert.

He is a little drunk, too, and the words pour out of him easily, and he is not too old and not too young, and he traces my skin and when I go in to kiss him without thinking about it, he tastes a little bit like the blood from his lip, and I realize and I say:

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," and he kisses me again and I make sure to text my friend before I go over to his place, promise her that I will be okay, promise her that I trust this boy with bruised knuckles and a ****** face.

I will be in love with him from that first night, though I will not tell him until he is ready to hear it, and he will not be a simple sort of man to love and live with, but he will be the same boy I have always loved, dark eyes lighting on my face, my partner-in-crime, a little too much and yet exactly enough.

to a boy who towered over me,
to a wonderful friend,
to the bad boy and the saint all at once,
to the clever boy,
to my reflection in a fun-house mirror,
to self-destruction personified,
to the golden boy with his head in the clouds,
to the boy who always gets lucky.

I.
in the bathroom, after you kissed me, you told me that you did it because I was the only one who hit back and it ended in fire but our kingdom was gold, and those are the memories I try to hold.

II.
I wish your name wasn't a common word: the world reminds me of you, the pressure went up, and now here we go, and I tell you my own truth: my confidence only seems to fail in one aspect, and that aspect is you, and I wonder how I'm ever supposed to tell you that you deserve everything when you don't believe you deserve anything at all.

III.
my god, the way you look when you sleep, I am not alone anymore, all that we need are what the other can bring, and if I play my cards right this could be a wonderful thing, because we are the ones who the universe loves and it has given us each-other, and this could be a wonderful adventure, and god I hope it is.

it is hard to be a girl because you are torn between what you are supposed to do and what you are supposed to want, nevermind what you really feel, because that is the role you play:
this is the price you pay.

you are supposed to want a good boy,
a relationship,
opened doors and emotional connection,
nothing more intense than holding hands in public
and a white, white wedding down the line.

and if you decide that you want something else,
if you are interested in nothing more and nothing less
than dim-lit nights and passing men
the intoxication of physical contact,
no expectations expected,
than you are broken, or you are in denial,
and no one wants a crazy girl.

you are supposed to do
whatever he tells you to,
whatever he asks, in that careful tone,
that tells you what it means if you say no.
he knows, and you do not,
and you are his playtoy,
even though you are a woman
and he is a boy.

and if you decide that you will not stand for it,
question him or make him talk,
push emotions on him that he is not yet mature enough to handle,
(nevermind that he is older than you, but there is such a word as man-child but not woman-child because we have no choice but to grow up),
then you a *****, then you are a fool,
then you will lose him,
or worse,
he will tell the world,
and you will lose yourself.

so you tell me that I am supposed to want one thing and do another?
you do not want me to want to do what he says,
and yet you expect me to obey anyway?
I am supposed to have no desire beyond a child's,
no needs like he has,
and yet I am supposed to lay there nonetheless,
obedient but not longing,
just following the unwritten rules.

you want me to be unhappy, I see it now,
it is a game that I am never meant to win.
either I am broken and strange
or destined to be alone...
what kind of choice is that?

so I grit my teeth and pretend I don't want this,
pretend that I do not ache for more unrestful nights,
pretend that I love you when I do not,
I just love touching you,
that is your expectation,
but if I ever said it,
it would mean my downfall and my shame.

they tell you, in these situations,
that you need to be yourself,
but no one ever gave me that kind of choice.

they showed me beauty and love and said:
"here is the role a woman will play"
"this is the price you have to pay"

somehow, I thought love was going to be harder than this,
a raging storm or a burning fire. first love, at least, was supposed
to be a whirlwind, overwhelming and frantic and never letting me rest, breathlessness and helplessness -
that is what love was supposed to be,
but my love, you are not like the stories,
our love is not the way it was supposed to be.
you are comfort and ease, the way it feels to lay down in a bed at night, the way a hot drink feels on a cold day, the way food tastes when you've been hungry for a long time.
our love is warmth and cool all at once, whatever is most refreshing, like the touch of your arms in the hazy light of morning,
like the rush of the wind when you fly down the highway.
it catches in my throat, even now that I say it:
I love you I love you I love you,
and I understand why they said this is scary,
because one feeling begins to wrap around me entirely,
until you are my comfort and you are my home,
and it is not helplessness, but it is weightlessness,
free-floating with only you to hang onto,
our dual lives like wings that rise and fall in unison:
brushing our teeth together, driving with your hand on my knee, speaking in each-other's adopted words, slowly blurring the line between what is mine and what is yours and now there are things and experiences that are called ours
and this love is ours and I could never have thought it would feel like this but it does it does it does!