At fourteen

You think you know what being in love is–

It’s when you stick to a boy like hot

Glue, attached like some extra appendage

Begging not to be cut off.

And when summer comes and you don’t see him,

You text relentlessly and delete messages,

Thinking feelings too can be deleted.

But really you know he sees them and just

Ignores you because you’re a little much.

You don’t use the word yet

Because you just like the same music

And his presence and

The way he bothers to look at you.

But you don’t use the word yet

Because you may still kiss a girl in this lifetime,

But every time the boy doesn’t text you,

You feel.

At fifteen you figure guys can be pretty too

And wrestle with the word more than ever.

But faggot rolls off the tongue instead.  

So you teeter between acceptance and

Masochism in a way that would make

Thirteen-year-old you cry.

And you do, you cry a lot–

At sixteen you think you cry because

Of some invisible sadness,

Because something out of reach

Makes you feel.

Until you medicate at seventeen

And feel more than ever and

Learn that maybe you’re just

Predisposed to hurt.

At eighteen you can envision

It’s curve, the swoop of each

Letter–how it looms over you.

But you don’t yet give it sound.

At nineteen you figure that

You’re just you and eat enough

To make it go down easier.

At twenty you get a cat and

Stop everything.

At twenty-one you no longer

Think you’re human.

At twenty-two you put on a pimple

Patch to celebrate.

At twenty-two the word gay

Becomes palpable overnight.

At twenty-two you think you’ve been

On Grindr more than Instagram.

At twenty-two you wait under the clocks

To meet a boy or Belle.

At twenty-two you collect responsibility.

At twenty-two you know what you don’t like.

At twenty-two you cry happy.

At twenty-two you stop writing.

At twenty-two you write some more.

You, at twenty-two, still feel like

hot glue.