This Is Not A Love Poem

I’m confused.

My thoughts bleed into each other

like a felt-tip drawing in the rain.

You’re the confusion.

You’re a scrambled Rubik’s cube, and I can’t solve you.

I’d call you an asshole, but that’s a little unfair.

When you smile, I try to remember your lips

are for someone else to kiss, try not to think

about your fingertips, callused by guitar strings.

When you spew sarcasm, I want to reply

with the same venom, so we can talk

as old Hollywood characters, trading one-liners for hours --

but I trip on my tongue. Your words

are flu shots, leaving pinpoint stings in my chest.

You should know better. You’re terrified of needles.

Sometimes, though, your words

can soothe, can reassure. You say

you’re listening, so I talk.

Words stumble out about the friends who ditched me,

the school that irritates me,

the God who evades me.

I wish I could tell you everything, but I’m gagged

by what I can’t say, won’t say, not to you.

Suddenly this feels worse than the stings.

Go on, you say, I’d love to hear.

And I’d love to tell you, but this

isn’t a love poem. This

is a nausea poem, a loneliness poem,

an oh-what-a-cruel-universe poem.