“Don’t worry, I won't fall in love.”
I’ll accept the little titbits
of affection, those you have left over,
yank them out of you,
yearn and beg for more,
craving for the love I felt
when I was 15 years old.
I would sink to my knees
and pray into the dirt
for a boy to love me once more,
giggle at how his hand
locks perfectly into mine.
Blush with his arm around my shoulder,
the tickle of his hair
against my burning cheek.
Oh, to be in love.
But I’ll bury my need
for love deep into a tomb
made of paper thin ice.
With a laugh, I’ll agree to a deal
that I almost never stick to:
“I won’t fall in love.”
I’ll reveal my body and bare
some of my soul, but never too much.
that was the plea deal;
I'm not allowed to fall in love.
But the tomb will melt easily,
butterflies will defrost,
drip into my womb.
I’ll convince myself
you “love” me,
until I find out
that I can't fall in love.
Comments