My sister told me to write happy poetry,
That people need happiness, not reminders of their pain.
I suppose she has a point,
But how am I supposed to write about something I don’t know?
I suppose I’ve glimpsed it from afar,
little fleeting feelings of joy prickling my chest.
—
My sister says I need to branch out,
So I’ll write about you.
The way you confuse me, make my heart twist and fold and lurch in my throat every time I see you.
I’m not sure if you’ll read this, or even know it’s about you.
You are pretty oblivious.
I suppose this poem is more of a declaration of love now,
Is that what this feeling is?
Love?
My sister says it’s infatuation, that you don’t like me.
Maybe she’s right, I should listen to her.
But I won’t.
—
This isn’t a poem, it’s not even a story either.
It’s just about a girl who is desperately in love with a boy, who only wants one thing.
And that thing isn’t my heart.
I suppose I could settle for that much,
You already have my heart even if u don’t know it.
—
I remember the feeling of ur hand in mine when I got nervous watching a movie about anxiety at school.
My heart threw itself against my rib cage so hard it almost tore through my chest.
My sister says I need to be with someone who doesn’t make me nervous,
someone who makes me feel calm and collected.
But how am I supposed to figure out which butterflies in my stomach are good or bad?
When I’m with you, nothing makes sense, yet everything does.
The whole world seems to fade, and it’s just you and me.
Alone, yet never truly alone.
—
I’ve always longed for an adventure, to do something worthwhile.
I was going to leave the country, write books in Italy.
But then I found out I didn’t have to leave my state to have an adventure.
You’re my adventure.
Each second I spend with you, I’m falling deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole.
My sister doesn’t believe me when I tell her that I might love you.
She says love doesn’t last, that’s why people write about it.
So people can read it and pretend that they are experiencing the type of love in novels that never exists.
Yet I believe in love, I’ve come to terms with that over my poem.
This was supposed to be a happy poem,
talk about flowers and the ocean breeze but I talked about you.
And the way your smile always brightens up the world around us.
How you looked at me that night when I was dancing in your arms.
The way your hand fits perfectly in mine.
How butterflies have taken permanent residence in my stomach.
Maybe I am in love.
Maybe this feeling that lurks under my skin has been happiness the whole time.
I’m happy with you.
My adventure.
A personal rebellion.
—
My sister told me to write more happy poetry.
So I wrote about you.
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