To the Boy On Whom I’ve Had a Crush Since Sophomore Year

The way I feel about you is the way I feel about most things (definitely). Nothing special, because multiplicity breeds normalcy. To crave a fulfillment is to give in, & what I mean by that is I constantly catfight with biology. / At the same time, I can’t fake apathy. I can’t fake the thrill of new and alive things the same way you can. I haven’t spent enough time doing this—catharsis as a mood rather than an action, when the blood brings back the bad no matter how hard I try to be creative, lovely, or master. / Focus, you say. Help me, as if there’s anything I could have touched thoroughly. I never envied myself until I stopped believing your realities. / Anger & its comrades, they’re meaningless here as I hunt for paths around cliché. Your eyes are like jumping bugs; I bet you’ve never heard that one. And I’m sick of writing to & about you because it won’t change anyone or anything but me.

==> In other words, I like you hormonally and I wish I didn’t because I can’t.


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Surrender is a choice, I like to think
made in dusky rooms, with outstretched palms and crowded sweaty limbs.
Give it up.
Cede control—
I want to know, you, more.
I wonder if the ultimate denial of the self is handing it away, wrapped crisply, if only it were that easy. Which the purest of goals is freeing of want and jurisdiction
how then does the marionette feel: despair, or the freedom of constraint?

Raw knees, a sticky-pus epidermis, stinging with scraggles of red. Raw soul,
a different sort of corporal pain—a post-unbolt numbness, some hot fickleness still in trusting like a blind man.

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