"Some boys will ask you
to open condoms instead of holding
your hand. Maybe because they find your skirt
too short for dancing, or maybe because they ran
out of pick-up lines, but don’t ever stop dancing,
or singing, or wearing something that makes
you feel beautiful. Some boys will hold you
like a toy rocket, letting you fly for about
an hour then forgetting about it
after they found out there is a new edition
in red lipstick. Remember that you can always fly
on your own, without their hands placing a
limit to the heavens. Some boys
will make you feel like a cotton ball,
some may treat your body as though
it is wrapped with crime scene tapes,
but don’t let them make you feel smaller
than anything picked up by their thumb and
index finger. You’re not a specimen to be
placed under a microscope, unless it’s with
someone you love most. Some boys
will manage to forget your name, or how much
you like listening to songs that sounds like poetry.
And yet, maybe out there, between reading these lines,
one boy will make you feel the opposite of it all.
He will be willing to hold your hand and
offer you his jacket protectively, all worried that
some boys will be looking at you because your’e
dancing the way you always do,
but he will let you anyway."
"I think we are and will always
be lonely people in a lonely
world under lonely stars.
We can never starve our loneliness.
We can only hope that by the
company of others,
it doesn’t devour us."
"He compared you to an emergency exit door
with sealed gaps around its four corners.
There are days when he imagines your face
close to a set of cosmetics opened for testing,
as though leaving yourself half-glittering with dust
will make him kiss you twice as much
before sleeping. He never said goodnight.
He sometimes had you waiting in fast food parking lots,
not knowing how much you hate salt,
and anything that will make it harder for your body
to decompose when its underground.
You never thought he was a rough draft of a novel
that would probably go unfinished. If anything,
he was a parcel of half-written thoughts on paper
that you wanted so badly to become a song.
There are nights when the bathroom smelled like aftershave
you just stayed there until morning. He didn’t ask you to to to bed.
Your body was mostly painted on those canvas sheets,
two-thirds of which smelled of you, and not of him,
nor of you and him altogether. Two weeks ago you realized
you were both making it harder to live, and a lot easier to not,
forgetting that you’re not suppose to think of old fairy tales,
when you think of him and when you think of love."