I wish I were a boy.
I wish I could ruffle my dark hair
I wish I could kiss other boys
I wish they'd see me as a boy too
I wish I could dress in boxers
I wish my neck's apple was seen when I laugh
I wish my voice was rough and smooth
I wish girls looked at me and think
I wish he were a boy.

The Iliad echoed in my ears as I gazed at his back-
The curve of his spine, the curl of his hair,
I laughed,
And they call me a God.

Those who call me a God have never seen him.
Not the way I have.
Unburdened by his title.
The title I placed upon him.

And I longed for the war: for the battle shouts and the fighting.
I looked away from him.
Was I doomed- doomed in the way that fabled Warrior was?
No. No I will not.

I will not sacrifice my love,
As Achilles so sacrificed his.
Hephaestion lays beside me,
Skin hot and copper-gold.

Achilles loved, and so did I-
Not with the weakness of men-
But the Hunger of Gods

I think love is wonderful.
When I imagine it, I see fingers intertwined.
Cuddles on the couch.
I see two people opening themselves up fully to one another—
and not running away from what they find.

My version of love is everything that should be...
not what I, as a little girl, have seen.
My version of love holds no place for control.
No room for lies dripping in sugar.
In my version of love, you hold each other up.
You make each other better,
and everything feels lighter when you're together.

Because, hey—
nothing says "I don't love you" like screaming words behind closed doors.
Like the emptiness of countless sorries.
Like trying not to set a person off
who is supposed to be your "significant other."

My love is... confusion.

I don't know if I can catch feelings.
My butterfly-catching net is frayed and torn,
so they just keep flying away.
It seems so easy and natural for them...
I just wish I knew for sure.

Could love ever be in the air?
Or is friendship truly where the line ends?

I've been so focused on self-love and self-growth
that I've not been able to see beyond me.
When I try,
there is only emptiness—
and more questions.

What I want to know is this:
Why can't me, myself and I be enough?
Why does everyone I meet
see me as incomplete
without a man or woman on my arm?

I know I love my things,
my music and my art.
Tisane, quiet contemplation,
and poetry.

Maybe the loves I've seen
have left my heart scattered.
Maybe The One is still out there...
but maybe they just aren't.

Kissing is weird.
*** is weird.
It's almost always the last thing on my mind—
it's just not something that I crave.

Let alone trying to get someone
to like me enough
to even want to do those things with me—
seems like so much EFFORT.

...is being alone really so bad?

Maybe I'm not built for romance,
but GODS does it seem wonderful...
I just don't know if that kind of love is for me.

I waited in silence.
Cold air whistled,
raised goosebumps on our arms.
Your eyes finally closed—
dark lashes flickered
as you exhaled.
I leaned down to your ear.
The sleeping bag rustled.
“I love you,”
even though you don’t love me.
You mumbled something back.
I didn’t hear.
I never asked what you said.
I just stared up at the tent.
You’d love me,
maybe,
if I wasn’t a girl.
And I’d tell you,
if you weren’t
the one person
I couldn’t afford to lose.

Sometimes the s in she gets caught in my throat
And the girl I’m about to see turns into a he

That one simple letter that I never wrote
Like its existence just embarrasses me

I’m just not quite there! I can’t admit it out loud
Because what if it makes them think I’m odd?

I’m too scared to let myself stand out in the crowd
To let others see how permanently I’m flawed

So, I choose my fears above my love for her
And pretend I’m something I never were

my boyfriend blocks me for four days
because I won’t give him the chair he wants.
I’m left scrolling through IKEA listings,
pretending the algorithm knows my waiting.

outside, neighbors drag out plastic stools
for another birthday party. balloons
tied to the wrong wrist, a dog howling
like it knows who gets the last seat.

on day three, I start naming the chairs
in my apartment: recliner as prophet,
barstool as witness. I kneel before
the ottoman, bargaining like a priest.

when he unblocks me, it feels
less like forgiveness, more like return policy:
no receipt, box dented, parts missing.
we drag it inside together, silent, already exhausted.

what I wanted to say was:
I would’ve sat on the floor
if it meant staying.

I wasn't made for something casual,
I need the undying love,
Of my beloved.
I need it to be never ending,
For it to cconstantly consume me.
I need it to eat me out,
To drown me in.
And **** out my soul
From within.

Кардиган и Коверкот
Гладили малыху в рот.
Лапсердак сидел, вопил,
Смаковал кайфовый чил.
Гройсе Гликовая Шикс
Пожирала жадно Твикс,
Согревала и строчила
Леопардовая Сила.

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Paris, 2021 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.

👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts

I didn’t plan to make it this far.
the road was long, and I was tired.
Life never promised me softness,
but then there was you ~
folding sunlight into my hours
like it had always belonged there.

You, who can fit
a decade of joy into a single day,
whose laugh pulls the dust from old corners
and leaves something living in its place.
Your eyes ~
they undress more than skin.
They peel back the years I wore like armor,
and somehow,
I do not mind being seen.

You say you don’t like your greys.
But I ~
I never thought I’d wear time like this,
like a shared jacket
slung across the backs of two souls
sitting on a porch too small for regret.
Each silver strand a mile we’ve wandered,
each wrinkle a map I get to trace
with grateful hands.

If this is what age can look like;
soft, surprising,
filled with the kind of joy
that hums low in the bones,
then let time come.
Let it etch you deeper into me.
Let it bring more of your quiet magic,
the kind that rewrites endings
before they’re written.

Whatever waits for us next,
I will greet it smiling.
Because somehow,
you made forever feel
less like a promise,
and more like a present.