This Is Going To Be A Bad Poem

This is going to be a bad poem.
Because when I write for her
I end up writing about the universe-
Including words that didn’t exist
Before I looked into her eyes
It’s almost like this atomistic world
Seems too small
To hold everything I feel-
And literally every writer
That has come before me
Has claimed the same
For their beloved.

This is going to be a bad poem
Because each time she smiles
While sitting next to me
With her heels in her hand
(As if the Earth will stop spinning
If she takes a day off)
I want to put small white flowers
In her long black hair
Because when those strands
Are right beneath my finger tips
I don’t mind this image being a cliche, anymore.

This is going to be a bad poem.
Because we’ve all gotten sick of
Hearing people being called ‘home’
And partners and soul mates
And we roll our eyes now
When yet another person
Talks about having a connection
But I don’t mind repeating verses
Because everytime we meet
It’s like we never said goodbye
So who gives a fuck
about being original?

This is going to be a bad poem.
Because at some point
I’m going to have to quote her
And I refuse to rephrase any sentences
Because I hope just like
I used to absolutely love it then
You will at least smile now, at how
In the muddled mess that we existed
She and I liked to talk
Like pretentious movie characters-
Always in metaphors
Always about something
bigger than ourselves-
And never about something real-
Like us.

This is going to be a bad poem.
Because to write a good one
I’m going to have to unravel
The giant mess of memories
That occupies a place in my chest
And to actually wonder what we were
And I’m too tired to do that today.

This is going to be a bad poem.
Because I don’t care for it
It’s not much fun writing it
Knowing that the next thing that I do
Isn’t going to be running towards her
And looking at her eyes
Slowly starting to dilate
As she reads it out loud.

This is going to be a bad poem
Like all the ones that
I have written in love
Because when we were together
I was still learning how
to write about her-
And now that we aren’t
I’m still learning
how not to.

This story was about: Gender Identities Sexuality

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The student that always has her hand up in class, and in life. Dreams of a world where there is an abundance of love and ice cream, minorities are not constantly expected to put in unequal emotional labour for everything, and kind people find each other despite all the noise.

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