i am not a poet.
When I say I have liked you for a long time, I don’t mean I wanted to fuck you. That’s what men usually mean when they say they liked you forever. (I liked you forever=I have been sexually attracted to you forever.) I usually don’t have the desire to fuck until much later, until I have already established a bond. I have to have a certain level of comfort to let my guard partially down.
Here we are in this period of awkward silence post-me saying I feel ignored, post your non-answer. I don’t know how much more direct I can be without exposing myself to the point of humiliation. Because I love love so much, not that candy corn drunk romantic movie love but real love--mimosas and sunday brunch love, sitting on the couch in silence for two hours love, inside joke and scalp massage love. “Did you eat?” love.
And that’s weird too, the conflation of sensual and sexual. That a scalp massage must be contextualized and qualified depending on whose hands. My uncle used to fall asleep when I grazed his squishy bald head with my fingertips. It brings me joy to bring joy with my hands. You used to style hair and I sometimes fall asleep imagining your fingertips between my kinks and now my braids but you are nowhere right now, or everywhere but my inbox, and I don’t want to pry. I don’t want to beg.
I am not a poet. I abandoned poetry after high school. I’m long winded, and I never could get it right, I never could rhythm the way I wanted to. I would trace over my old poems, terrible, horrid things. I typed them all up anyway and filed them away. My mother read one of my poem journals without asking once, and told me about it. Things you do when you have abused your power so much that you have to steal intimacy. One day I will burn them so my embarrassment doesn’t resurface post-death. What if I become a tumblr famous comic author, but my work doesn’t make enough money to cover my grandkids thirst for wealth and financial beauty and then they discover my embarrassing journals and say, “She’s dead as fuck, let’s publish these and make hundreds!” And then I have to figure out how to become a ghost so I can haunt their tacky asses into a grave.
Wait a second, I got off track.
I was telling you a story, but really telling myself a story because I am struggling to understand what your silence indicates, has someone dethroned me? Is it possible you could love us at the same time? Do I sound desperate? I’m not. I just feel like love, though finite, can take on the properties of infinitism if we think of it in a non-monogamous, pre-Romantic context. And that if we stop chaining ourselves to these fucked up ideas of what love is supposed to be like maybe men would stop waiting until penetration to love me, maybe they could love me from afar but without distance. Maybe they could love me without touching me.
I am angrier the longer I’m ignored because I pride myself on not being cryptic, so I bared my soul like the fool I am. I showed my hand, like a woman is supposed to never do. The thing about long distance is that you can just forget. Backburner the discomfort. Because who’s gonna remind you if you don’t check your messages? Nobody. This is why I have always hated blue. Men who like blue have never treated a burnt orange person well. Blue thinks it’s the bee's knees because everybody likes it, but what about autumn orange? What about banana crème yellow-lavender rose people like me? Where do we fit? Do you have space for me?
Do you have room for me when you’re happy?