Earlier today, I saw a blurb about how this girl wishes
she could write the way that she thinks.
In hurricanes.
Endlessly.
Breathlessly.
About everything.
But especially her “you”.
But I can.
I can write what, and how, I think.
I can write about it until I’m blue.
I can even write every single feeling
I feel about my “you”.
But I choose not to.
Because nobody wants to know
how girls like me think.
And nobody wants my “you”,
embodied over and over again in ink.
Gets old, don’t you think?
So I stay silent and still,
and let every single word sink.