I don’t know why I’m afraid.
It’s hard to wrap my brain
around the collection of facts and panic attacks
I’ve had in the past
about the ones
who stain on my youth.
To be this bitter and detached is
sad and annoying.
I listen to myself and
get grossed out by how
soggy and rotten I’ve become towards affection.
So I’ll try to intrinsically convince
that each drunken kiss
and casual hookup
doesn’t tear me apart
to pieces in your sheets.
Emotions aren’t neat
like the shirts I watch you fold-
delicately running your finger over each crease.
I wish that were me.
Letting you gently bend me to your whim and then
place me softly back into your possession.
See-
I’m becoming too attached.
This won’t last.
I am just aluminum walls built against a sea
swept away and crushed by the rocks
and you are the moon- a clueless magnet.
It’s hard to wrap my brain around
the collection of facts and panic attacks
I have when I think about
what it means to want you.
