i hug you
on tiptoes
with arms around your neck
like “girls do”
but i haven’t been a girl
since i was 7 years old
and i know that how you see me
doesn’t match up with
who i used to be

and the first time i
hugged you like that
i told you
i loved you
smelling like 11.5 hours
marinating in other people’s food
and you said you knew
when i said the day was horrible

and i want you to know
i didn’t mean for this to happen
heart eyes you don’t notice
talking about you like
you’re a new favorite book
pages i never want to stop
running my hands over
papercuts be ******

but i love you
for your long hair
black as ink
and other metaphors
and i wonder if you’d let me
run my fingers through it
like some cheesy romance novel

i love you
for your smile
and how you smile at me
still laughing at my lame jokes
about how queer i am

i love you
for how you said you
just have to
sing along to
in the danger zone and
the wall between us
hid a grin so wide
my cheeks hurt

and i love you
even though i know
this will never go anywhere
because i’m never going to
tell you

just how much i love you
just how much i want to kiss you
just how much i miss you
when you’re gone

and just how much i hope
you might love me back
enough to let me
be yours

she is not good at poetry, she says
as she writes stories of love
from orion to scorpion
speaking in the language of the stars
as she tries to close the gap the universe has made between them

everlasting, ever so sweet
though unsure if they'll ever reach him
her tales of affection shall last
till the world's last breath

This wasn't the first time
But it will be the last time
I create an identifiable pain
To numb the persisting wounds,
That I let my hollow stomach
Swallow all of my sorrows,
That I go to bed hungry
Struggle to wake up again,
Just to Pace around my kitchen
Afraid to open the refrigerator,
I promise this is the last time,
It's always the last time,
Please let this be the last time..

True love is a tweasure
A chocolate covered walnut miracle
of as you wish

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.

There was an old person in black,
A Grasshopper jumped on his back;
When it chirped in his ear,
He was smitten with fear,
That helpless old person in black.