13.03.23, or love me together but leave me alone (the ballad of lonely girls)
I am exactly the kind of girl who drops everything she's doing if you text me the moon looks pretty. I think it looks pretty every day, but I'll check it tonight with an extra gleam in my eyes because somebody else said so. and I'll have big plans for all your birthday parties and I'll handmake elaborate gifts even though I don't have enough time and I'll regret it or give up on it midway through it. I try to coordinate the right flavor of the cookies I bake to your favorite preferences and your favorite memories, and I'll hate myself if I ever forget your favorite color. I know your favorite bands and I listen to them when I miss you. I have such clear pictures in my mind. I love to love and to coordinate it accordingly. I'll romanticize every pitch I hear from your voice and I'll turn myself inside out to become your favorite friend.
they're important to me. favorites, and knowing. I want to be known, I want you to know me so bad, but I stutter when presenting myself (even though I have the shortest name you ever heard). then I don't. and I reclaim the silence yet again and I'm back to tugging at your sleeve at the playground so you'll tell the other kids who I am. who I am. do you know who I am? did I ever have the guts to tell you? I don't know. I don't say. I don't, I don't, I don't.
romanticize me, I plead to empty rooms from parties I didn't attend. romanticize me, I crave it so badly. please love me louder. louder than this godforsaken trashy music that your boyfriend's high school friends seem to enjoy and louder than your mother when she shatters you tonight. love me like we laugh in the dark. love me like I'd write poems about it. too much time has gone by and I don't know how it fucking feels.
I have a thousand polaroids of my youngest sister through my bedroom walls so she knows somebody took the time to memorize her to bits before she reivents herself for the change of seasons. I wish she feels she was loved loudly. I wish when she's grown, and alone in the middle of the night, she knows I tried to know her. I did. I do. I hope she grows to write poems about it. I did. I do.