On Paper 8-1-12
I wrote your name on a crumpled piece of paper.
I colored it with hearts and stars surrounding your every
letter.
I wrote it over and over again. Smiling within every thought of you.
I even ironed out the wrinkles with the heated expectation
that ran through my hands.
Pubertal, I sat for years upon years, relishing in the
wonder of your return and if it would reverse my awkward impatience.
Somehow within the years, I went from wistful writing to
sudden scribbling.
It became more of a sporadic event when I realized you were
such a nomad--
no schedule, no objective, no theme, no intention,
no point.
But, pubertal I sat for years upon years, adhering to the
hope that maybe you had written my name down somewhere in your wayfaring mind.
Upon your return, I was surprised you accepted the
invitation to see me.
Your attentiveness was greatly appreciated, but you cut it
far too short.
Our ball was in your court, but you let it fly right past
you.
Our chance dangled in front of your eyes, but you never even
opened them.
I relished in our potential, but you barely gave an effort.
I’ve finally apprehended that my colossal dreams
just can’t fit into your life’s insolvent horizon,
and I don’t even want to try to squeeze my substantial
significance into your trivial spectrum of idiocy anymore.
Yet, pubertal I still sit here staring at this old, crumpled
piece of paper.
My tears smear the scribbles into stains.
Is it that you are not good for me or am I just not good enough for you?
I can’t seem to do it, but I know I have to.
Since my name has never appeared on your list (and never
will),
I MUST muster the strength to scratch you off of mine.
It’s time to finally erase you
and to comprehend the reason why this piece of paper was so
crumpled to begin with.
