I want you.

I want to know your favorite color and your middle name.
I want to know about the people you hate and how you found out you loved women.

How do you make your sandwiches?
What foods do you like and can’t pronounce?
What places do you want to see and what words do you know but can’t explain the definition?

Can we cuddle?  
And by cuddle I don’t just mean lay on you, because trust me, I can do that without cuddling. By cuddling I mean let me hold you till you forget your problems and I finally stop talking.

I want to call you baby. I want to sit in a room, with you, listening to jazz music.

I want to feel your pulse and you feel mine,
I want to hear your heartbeat dance to the rhythm of the same songs on the corny playlist on Spotify I made that remind me of you.

The Special Playlist,
(I call it)
The Makeout Playlist,
(you do).

I want to only be about to hear our synced hearts
and the slow songs
and the weight of the world leaving our shoulders
plopping onto the floor with your worries
and the jacket I took off of you when you first came in.

I want you to tease me
because I significantly failed as a former lesbian
because I’ve never watched Orange is the New Black
or The L Word
“You’re not Lesbian certified”
You’ll tell me.

I want to speak to you
In my limited German vocabulary
and watch gay movies
and let you tease me even more
when you find out I can’t sit through sex scenes
even the really gay ones,
and nudity isn’t my thing.
It’s okay though,
Your laugh is cute.

And I want to kiss you.
I want to kiss you like
we’re those horny ass teenagers
from Romeo and Juliet,
(but with a better ending).
I want to kiss you like
there’s nobody else in the world
And there aren’t people who hate me for liking you
And your family won’t care if you love me because
Damn,
I want to kiss you.

Let me buy you flowers,
and want to take you on dates.

Let me take you to McDonald’s
and order off the dollar menu because
I believe in treating my girl right
(And I get an employee discount)

let me tell you why I churches make me nervous
and how I don’t believe in God and
why I don’t like birthday parties
And how I want to have my cake and eat it too
Even though I hate cake
And prefer cupcakes,
But nothing is better than cake if that’s you.

I want you to know why I played trumpet for three years then switched to baritone,
I want to know if you’ve ever done drugs and how it felt.
What are your morals and values?
What’s your utopia?

I want to send you goodnight texts and spend hours talking about nothing
And dance offbeat with you because
neither of us could have rhythm to save our lives.
I’ll let you scream fight me when I let you win in games I would destroy you at because you get that goofy smile when you think you’ve won.

Introduce me to your family and I’ll show you mine.
Let me see your baby photos and we can see foreign movies on Netflix.
Let’s go out for coffee and ask deep questions.


I don’t care, okay?
I just want you.

Drink her words up,
They make you forget you’re forging
A fire deep in your soul
Burning you alive.
Her mind
is stronger than her words,
so let that burn
in the back of your throat,
As it goes in your system.

Her words intoxicate me.

I wish I was her world
Her everything.

I wish I was that coffee cup
That get the pleasure of touching her lips
every morning

I wish
She was mine.
Like the movies in my cabinet,
Except I would watch her
even when I’m not sad.

Another
movie plays.
The boy
kisses the girl,
I imagine myself as the boy,
I imagine her as the girl.
I imagine her
As mine.

Is it possible for her to love me?

I am reaching out for you. I reach to the deep corners of my heart where the darkness begins by its shadows cover; where there was a small hole from the first woman I loved.

I'm reaching to pull the arrow that grown baby in the diaper shot me in the bum with,

I'm reaching for where he's missed and shot and left scars is big as that gaping hole in my heart that Never seemed to heal correctly.

I'm reaching. I'm reaching for the day I saw you in that wheelchair my first day of marching band and someone said we'd be a cute couple of shorties.

I'm reaching for the day I switched seats and you were directly across my black eyes and I could feel my pupils dilate at least 45 percent.

Oh god this is amazing.

I'm reaching into the corners of my mind where I keep my biggest secrets and I'm reaching for you.

You look just like the girl I met 3 years ago.
You look just like the girl I lost 7 months ago.

But did I lose her
Or did she lose me,
Or did we both lose each other?

Can you lose something that was never really yours?
Something you thought you had
But really didn't?
Can you lose something
That was never there?
Can you lose a girl with rainbow hair?

Because 3 years ago
I met a girl
Who did not have rainbow hair.
But was a gay cliche,
Back then her hair was red.
Her hair was red and long,
Kept in place by a braid and a bandana.
And she made all the little kids laugh.

3 years ago I met a girl with hair the color of a blue that had started to fade,
And left a trail of sickly green dye behind.
Back then she had friends
And spent most of her days laughing until her core was sore the next day.

2 years ago
I met a girl
Who still dyed her hair with splat
But was now blue and purple.
Short
Half shaved
Blue and purple
To match her personality.

2 years ago I met a girl
Whose hair had been bleached
enough times that it felt like straw at the bottom.
Her hair was a red that made fire trucks look dull
And hurt to look at in the sun.
She held half smiles instead of her usual dimple faced grin.

Last year I met a girl
Hair just like the last
But more purple
Less blue.
Her body looked like a clean canvas without stripes.
The purple in her hair burst with paint
Creating whatever flowed down her pen.
Scratching dragons, tigers, and penguins,
The ink in her hair
translates onto the page,
And there was no way to describe it.

Last year I met a girl
Who spent her life in hospitals and trying to stay alive.
Her hair had become lonely without its color.
It was her natural black and bleached clashing in war.
Her ink on the page was words instead of sketches.

This year I met a girl.
This time I didn't know her.
All I knew was the rainbow hair
Cut off on one side,
And flowing to her cheek bone on the other.
She wore a black suit
White shirt,
And that shiny yellow tie she had always loved.
She loves ties.
Just like the girl I met 3 years ago,
This new girl loved ties.
She had a track record of bad mistakes
That matched up perfectly with mine.
This year I met a girl.
I had no clue who she was,
But she looked familiar all the same.
This new girl resembled the first.
She laughed often,
Smiled so big that her face hurt at the end of the day.
This new girl didn't live in hospitals.
She watched horror movies and tried to skateboard.
An unsuccessful plan.

And I realized.
These girls with colored hair and paints
are all similar.
They have the same goofy grin,
And a wrinkled up nose when they laugh.
They all have the same scar where their pet iguana accidentally scratched them.
They have infectious laughter that makes you turn your head to look back and see what it was.
They all have the same pale skin
That I've always teased about.
All of those girls,
Hated skirts
And wore cargo shorts or skinny jeans
With no in between
Those girls would not be caught dead in a dress
And only wore suits.
Only edgy punk rock clothes
Without listening to the bands
And instead listened to Florence.
All of those girls had the same name
And they all had the same personality.
The girls were identical in soul.
Those girls were one person.
Those girls were my first love.

And I realized,
These girls all have the same facial structure
And the same choice in music, clothes, and morals.
All of those girls had the same undeniable light
With a spirit that wanted to touch everything.

Today I met a girl.
I met a girl who smiled as she wrote this,
And didn't feel an aching when she wrote about her first love.

Today I met myself.

how could you forget about me so easily?
i act like you ever cared about me.
god, i'm so fucking stupid.
at night i laid in bed restless,
wondering if i ever came across your mind,
wondering if you felt guilty knowing how much i wanted you,
while you were with him
creating beautiful memories,
memories i yearned to make with you.
now that he's gone, do you think of me at all?

i wrote a book about you
all while you were enveloped in his arms.
and i published it on the internet, hoping
maybe one day you'd come across it.
i thought that once i put it out there,
i had finally ridden you from my memory and heart,
but that's not true at all.
i still think of you, even when i'm with him.
now i'm the one feeling guilty.

We will
Knock you
Down.