a response to the poetry i don’t think you wanted me to read

you talk a lot about this Other and i wonder how long it’s been since you loved her. we have been on one date and maybe it was because i was nervous or maybe it was because of your cleaning lady but i didn’t know how i felt. and i still don’t know how i feel but i feel that you and i are quite possibly the least alike and the most alike that is possible.

i always say that my brain on a routine basis likes to invert on itself and tell itself lies and tell my body to do things to myself that are unholy. and i don’t mean unholy as in mixed fabrics and shellfish but unholy as occasionally i find myself collecting all the reasons people are upset with me into my paintbrush fists and coloring my body to match the sky at sunset. i think i fractured a rib last time because it’s still hard to breathe.

sometimes you text me and i’m hypersensitive to the fact that i’m texting you back. and i feel the need to always be funny, to always make you laugh because if i am not making you laugh then i am hurting you. and if i am hurting you or anyone really then i have more blue and purple to paint on my body.

speaking of hurting people i am still in communication with every single person i’ve dated and i’ve only been intimate with one person out of a relationship but in that encounter consent was clouded by the percent alcohol in my body. i still don’t know if i said yes. i still don’t know if i was able to say yes. needless to say we don’t talk anymore.

i don’t know where i’m going with this or why i’m writing it.

when i was seven i knew i was bi. a guy told me that if i kissed a girl i wouldn’t get pregnant and i believed him and i started noticing girls in ways i hadn’t previously. by thirteen my sister told me i was ruining her life and i remember going into my bathroom and pulling the tylenol down from the cabinet and opening the bottle and pouring a ton into my hand i froze, i was just standing there, and my dumbass self left the goddamn door open and my sister saw me and called my mom and i am still to this day more terrified of my mother than of death.

so i put the pills back and went upstairs and made myself disappear into the blue of my covers. my mother came upstairs into my room and sat down on my bed and she asked me how i could do such a thing to my father, how i could make him cry at work. i didn’t say anything but eventually she left and i didn’t get help i didn’t get antidepressants and i still to this day have not taken a single pill for the bright white chaos in my mind. i go to therapy only during school because i don’t make enough money to afford a therapist in the summers and even ACA doesn’t cover me past 26.

you talk about freckles a lot. i have freckles.

you called me Ron Weasley, actually, and i don’t know how to feel about that. Ron was pathetic and totally manipulative to Hermoine and i would never even dream of being that way to anyone.

i don’t know where i’m going with this.

i am physically attracted to you but i didn’t desire you until i read your poetry.

you talk about turning people into poems and i want someone to do that to me. i want to know how that happens and i want to know how it feels and i want to know if someone can make poems out of touches and i find it so attractive when my partners like to hold hands in public. it’s defiant and badass and both of those things are bigger turn-ons for me than anything else.

my previous relationship was simple. we had no intellectual connection but we had an intense emotional and physical connection, both of which twice died quickly. after she told me she thought there was “more out there” for her i told her i didn’t love her anymore and it was true. she got mad at me for telling her i didn’t love her but not at herself for telling me she wanted to explore her options.

she hated it when i talked shit about 45.

but i still talk to her and i still talk to my ex-boyfriend and occasionally i’ll still talk to someone i talked to for two months. i don’t like setting bridges on fire because there have been a lot of bridges that other people have set fire to and i need bridges because sometimes it is necessary for me to exit myself.

if we date i must warn you that i don’t like being gaslighted and i don’t like being made to feel crazy and i detest relationships in which things are not handled with maturity and mutual respect. i have depression and anxiety and i will not enter another relationship in which those things are exacerbated.

this is really creepy, i understand. i sincerely hope you don’t read it; not now, not ever. i probably will leave it in my drafts folder if i’m cowardly enough.

actually, i did write that i would rather be mediocre than a coward, so i will post it. maybe if you search me on Google and do as much digging on me as i’ve done on you then it’ll even itself out. but even then, you gave me access to your poetry.

i’ve read every single word, by the way. language is insufficient to articulate you, i get it, but i think i understand more, now. i hope someday soon we’ll get to the point where you can tell me without me having to read it first, regardless of whether we remain friends or become something else.


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