I can only write poetry
When I am drunk.

It's 5:27 p.m. on a Wednesday;
The things I do for love.

We stayed up all night,
Drinking wine, listening to Dire Straits.
I told you I loved you like Romeo loved Juliet
You told me to get more creative,
So I said it again, in French.

We crossed paths
I crossed a line
You crossed me off your list   
                                                      f
                                                  f
          ­                                    o
  
     W                                e
          e                   ­      m
        
               c               d
                  r         e
                    o   s
I     c    r    o   s    s   e   d     a     l   i   n  e
                   o   s
                r         e
             c             d
    
      u                       p
   o                            a
Y                                 t
                                     h
                                       s

People always ask me about my anxiety and trust issues;
Why I was perfectly fine and then one day I wasn’t.
But I don’t exactly know much,
Except that it’s made of moments like this.
Mostly it’s annoying or upsetting but finally I see what they do.
That combined with not being able to do anything about it,
It’s driving me mad.
Maybe I should have given up after I’d been hurt the first time;
But you were so persistent in being sweet to me.
So when you told me that you liked me I decided to just let it happen.

What could go wrong?
That only lasted about two months,
Before you met someone else and I wasn’t good enough.
With that affection you had given me you also took the bandages.
My heart began to unravel.
Just when I got used to the idea that it didn’t matter,
That I couldn’t expect the things that held importance at night to bleed over into the day;
Right when I’d moved past it,
You’d become the remedy to the pain you had caused.
What could go wrong?

That’s what I said the first time.
And the second.
When other people decided to make my personal life their priority.
Remember that?
You ran scared like you could turn the feelings off;
And two weeks later we fell back into our usual pace
With absolutely no trouble or second thoughts
That is, until a face-to-face moment.
No more sweet, on-the-cheek kisses or affection.
You stayed distant until we were 100% alone;
Zero chance of anyone at all observing any slight romance between us.
As soon as we were alone you had your lips on mine,
Melting me, melting into me.
Just like that it felt like you were gone.

“But what could go wrong?” I said.
More like screamed, as over and over I somehow felt my world crashing down,
And memories bringing me back.

It was 8 January 2012 when you first told me you liked me;
Spoke of the butterflies I gave you.
Scared that I wouldn’t be adequate or that you’d meet someone else,
Shyness leaked its way into special moments.
When you assured me that you liked me,
Liked me way too much to go anywhere anytime soon,
I believed you and those words.
What could go wrong?

Early March, the 3rd I believe, when you met that other girl,
And started what would be a constant fear-fueled jealousy,
But it was such a blur that I can’t quite remember.

12 July we had our first “official date”
The 23? Our first kiss.
The 27 and 29 we went out again,
And 9 August you broke my heart.
I guess you didn’t mean to, didn’t have a choice.
But you did.
And on 1 September when you waltzed in and out, I let you.
Like some kind of yoyo, things continued.
You stayed the one to make me happiest,
But maybe I shouldn’t have put that responsibility on you;
Made you the only person I could trust with absolutely everything.
But I did, and you were.

Until 28th January 2013.
When you said you didn’t like me and hadn’t for a while.
Still through the following months your actions contradicted your words.
Much like the psychology I had learned.
You probably don’t remember much but I’d explained your behaviour to you.
About how there must be some conflict,
Between what you want and what others define as acceptable.

Now it’s crossed my mind that perhaps I was just making excuses.
Because I don’t want to see you as anything other than the prince I have been seeing you as.
Even now I’m making excuses for you.
Saying that maybe you had a viable reason for all of this.
Deep down, I sense that you don’t.
Probably never did.
This is because you were never willing to be serious with me.
Not serious enough to get into a relationship.
Not serious enough to so much as mention me to your best friend.

So yeah I guess it seems like I’m bitter,
When really that’s not it at all.
It’s called pain, heart-break, whatever.
It’s the feeling of uncertainty.
And all the questions about nearly every moment we’ve ever shared.
Wondering if it’s because I wasn’t pretty enough,
Or if I didn’t give enough;
Why somehow I just wasn’t enough for you or anybody else.
Or maybe I was; maybe I was too much.
Or loved you too much, or whatever.
Somehow it could be a billion things or none at all.
Somehow none of that matters.

Just not knowing and never getting an explanation,
While you leave wordlessly to happiness,
And I sit in silence overcome by thoughts,
Crying in the shower for hours…
That is the cause of this passive-aggressive bit.
About how you’ve broken a part of my trust in you.
Just like many others.
Surely not the first and certainly not the last.

As you cried on my shoulder,
it watered the flowers that you planted in my chest.

I align myself with the notion I have it figured out .
But surreptitiously imagine traveling to the ends of the earth, until my mind is plastered with its beauty .

"But that's not a job " they say , "you can do that when you have money ."

It all comes down to the money , pieces of refined wood and words .
I have to get this morphised tree things to actually see those trees .
For how long ........

4 years

maybe 5 .........

15 ?

It displeases me, that maybe living through my worst fears could lead me to those trees .
Being confined into a little room and typing away on a ancient computer .
The smell of expired coffee and over polished leather shoes settling on my nose .  

"But what if I want to be creative then ?"

"Surely you can't mean being an artist " they scold

"No.....maybe architecture or graphics design ."

They nod , "yes those seem to get you the money then ."

But architecture means making buildings.
I can't , that would require me to reprogram my hand to stop the doodles of swirly lines and unfinished thoughts .
And to draw lines  of accurate straightness and concrete ideas .

Maybe I just don't want to grow up .
Yet I'm told I seem mature , held together .( the irony )
But that's because the system wants someone docile .
I just don't want to be observed,
so I squish myself into normal.  Just to be grey in the sea of discolored faces  .
I don't want to be picked out  and ridiculed for my indecisiveness .

But that will change when I have passed their tests . To move out of their schools .

Get the piercings I wanted and feel alive when I plunge into death contained situations

But I'm not sure though . I think about the future .

Repeating thoughts to people of what I want to do .
And each time I become less and less sure .

And more and more certain I will be made grayer , more uncertain . Then be the fraternal twin of black , white and have a bright light, coaxing me into the future .