Almost 2 am

Gold, silver, platinum,
Check off the little box
So you can
Find just the right thing,
That costs $50 or more.

I keep mentioning, as you keep moving closer in
On me, and my thoughts and my personal space,
"This isn't about me. It's not about me. I don't want to draw attention to myself."

And you say, over me,
"But look at this one!"

And you ogle over the shiny things
That I could give less of a **** about.
Because the real thing I'm excited for,
Is spending time with him.

I'm excited for being part of his life,
In this way,
In a way that kind of matters,
Because I want to be stand with him
And it makes me really happy,
And my heart all fluttery,
And my chest all warm
And I don't understand.
It's so corny.

I'm getting attached.
I knew I would.
But how could I not?
Maybe I always was.
Red strings of fate,
Well,
They're tricky little *******,
And will fool you for years.

So while you
Look at jewelry now for yourself on your phone,
I'll switch the ring you put in my cart
Out with one that I think suits the occasion
And him and I
Much better.

You'll think it's cute,
Whatever,
Blah blah blah
You won't get the sentimental value,
The fact that it will mean so much to me
If he smiles when he sees it.

But I guess that's the thing.
You had shiny things
And sparkly things
And green paper
For so long,
Much longer than I did.

I've learned to rather enjoy going without.
There isn't so much pressure.

And you say "It's not about our difference in tastes,"
Your tone implying that yours is still better,
"it's about looking classy and right for the occasion.
"It's not about your taste, it's about the occasion."

I start to see red,
And I go off for about six minutes,
A little longer than usual.
"How many times today have I said that this isn't about me?
"How many times today have I said that that's the reason I don't want to wear something like that?"

And I tried not to say it, but I did anyway.
"I'm not some type of ****. I don't use people. I refuse absolutely to give off that impression."

Because I know girls who do that,
And I know they wear things like that.
Extravagantly thin sparkly diamond strings lacing up their throats,
And rings the size of lollipops
Glittering their knuckles.
Manicured nails that could cut your face off,
Pedicured toes that could shank you in the stomach.
Hoops or chains glistening out of their punctured ears and tangling with long hair.
Purposefully too-tight too-short dresses to show too-much cleavage and sky-high heels that end in a point sharp enough to puncture your spinal column with ease.

I'm not supposed to look like some shiny barbie doll that's been weaponized.

If anything, if I got to choose, I'd want to look only vaguely threatening and positively ethereal and mostly gentle.

But then you go on and on and on
About manicures
And pedicures,
And I interrupt your rant on designs
For nails with
"Black."

"What?"

"Black or blue polish. Nothing else."

"You don't want to get fake nails--"

"Hell no."

"Extensio--"

"For my hair? **** that," Cue another sarcastic comment about weaponized barbie dolls.

This shouldn't be so stressful.
And I can feel myself crying,
And my breathing is a little shaky,
Because I don't think anyone understands
That I legitimately care about my Bluebird.
This isn't just about it being fun,
About time being fun with him,
About how easy talking to and being around him is.

It's about caring to the point of my chest hurting a little when I think something might be wrong.
It's about caring to that same point when he smiles, and being able to see it.

I know, I know.
Corny.

But still,
I've been so okay lately,
Yeah I've had a few bad days,
But he didn't run off when they happened,
And that means a lot.

Even writing this,
I'm tearing up a little.
I don't understand.
I know I shouldn't fight this feeling,
But I kind of think I might have to.
Just for a little while.

[Insert keyboard smash]
SDKLFJSADKLFJ
**** it, whatever.

Feelings are insane,
And they make me all choked up.