he said i was too particular. like

my mother’s menudo, where

i pick out the foods i don’t like and

keep the ones i do.

and everyone claims that i have high standards. supposedly that

is why all of them leave and i could have someone if

i wanted to. (you know that, right?)

 

my fingers are shaped oddly in shadows on my keyboard

the limp canned noodles of another life

pegging away in the yellow glow of my lamp

poems about hurt and un-wanting and rejection and sorry

and misbegotten unfortunate

love

 

see, i am tired of being placed

into a box, either smart or pretty or short or ugly or too much or not enough

but never

just me.

 

and i am tired of love and emotions of wanting and wanting without ever

having enough because how am i supposed to find someone

when i am just typecast a shell of a person hidden in ink and paper and pen and

black on white?

 

i wish you could see me

not like they see me

just want to know me

more than they know me

 

and fuck. i want you to be more

than what we are right now

i want to breathe your breath

so i can know what oxygen

tastes like

<to fertilize the dryness of my lungs>

 

and i want to kiss you

 

until all you can

remember is my name,

touch you

until all i can say

is yours