he won't write you poetry like neruda or bukowski. he won't ink your name underneath his skin nor will he cut his hair shorter for your mom. he won't stay up with you to read jane austen and hemingway. sometimes all you'll hear from his end of the line is snoring and you'll know he has fallen asleep. again. he won't take you to a romantic dinner every other night. he won't surprise you with a picnic basket on a tuesday afternoon to whisk you away to a spontaneous date on the beach. his hand will sweat sometimes. he will smell like cigarettes and the inside of a Starbucks. he will chew his food loudly and eat with his leg up. he will wake you up in the middle of the night just to tell you about a dream that woke him up. he will do this because he's afraid he'll forget in the morning. he will not get along with some of your friends, your dad will ask you "are you sure?" and your little brother will hate him. he will have acne and blackheads. he won't be around everytime you need him. he won't magically appear just in time to catch after you've tripped down the stairs.

he won't be the guy you keep reading in novels about. he won't be the mysterious, poetry-writing, guitar-strumming, *****-dropping British guy you keep wishing you'd finally meet.

surprisingly, despite of all of this, you will fall for him anyway. because even though you wanted a love story similar to those you found printed in pages, you will realize that they end after a dramatic moment in the airport, or a long romantic make-out session under the pouring rain, or after the one major problem is resolved.

you will realize that nothing comes after for them. what happens after the romantic colors of sunset fade and the darkness takes over?

you will realize that your own story is way better. because even though he talks too loud in libraries and hogs the blanket, he stays. he is there beside you at 2am when you suddenly wake up from a nightmare. you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and his arm around your waist. you can hear him whisper "i love you" and it will be dripping with honesty. and that is more than any fictional poetry-writing, guitar-strumming, *****-dropping British guy can ever do.

My virginity
a security blanket,
I keep at the foot of my bed.

It doesn’t shield me from loneliness,
It’s purely for show.

I imagine limbs tangled in that blanket.
Our breathes mingling to create dream clouds.

Legs combining like tree roots.
A tentative hand and trembling lips,
The tangible reality of my nerves.

Sooth me with my favorite line from Jane Austen,
Darling I just might love you.

Hips grind against hips

We’re two halves of a love poem.
You, the undying love
Me, the inevitable disappointment.

Stupid white girl.
We are not allowed to do anything.
We're prim and proper, white girls.
We are not allowed to fight back.
Put us in our place, white girls.
We are not allowed real work.
We still want our twenty three cents back.

The child of fair skin and blue eyes.
But with all my female privilege,
Came a nasty stamp on my body.
Like a watermark.
FEMALE.
I have heard that when a woman looks in the mirror, she sees a woman.
But when a man looks in the mirror, he sees a human.

Even with that watermark, our pale skin is used as a canvas.
And everyone else has been handed the tools to color in our curves.
Covering us in blue and black and purple and red.
Redrawing our minds so they cannot process the discrimination,
Painting over our tears so our feelings can be buried,
Manufacturing open legs when you want them,
Closed when you don't.
Erasing the lips we use to speak out,
Erasing the eyes we use to see all of this.

You think just because you held the brush,
Just because you created this monstrosity of a "masterpiece"
You get to claim ownership of this piece of artwork
That you blatantly disregard
Is my BODY.

The "fe" you tack onto "male"
Does not stand for Free Entry.
The "wo" you tack onto "man"
Does not stand for Wipe Out.

Women are barely able hold a pencil.
I was lucky to hold one long enough to draw myself
A conscience, a backbone, legs to stand on, and a mind.
We were only taught how to use the back end of that pencil
To erase our mouth and keep the secrets.
But these days the secrets are keeping themselves.

I will not be put in a glass case
You will not charge admission
To have people come and analyze me.
Buy me.
Give me value.
Categorize me.
Preserve me the way you created.

You are no artists.
You are vandals.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"