if I lived in a piece of fiction,

I could have those unrealistic perfections I numb myself on

like thinkin’ we could kiss at midnight when the two of us finish our work shifts

like him reading into something vague I posted online, thinkin’ it was about him

as an excuse to be vague and say something about me.

(of course it was about him, or at least partially)

if I lived in a piece of fiction,

he’d have been flirting already, playfully cuter to me already,

leaning in already.

you make yourself nauseous thinkin’ of the fairytale.

 

if I woke up on the written page,

there would be the gentle nudge of a hand to persist with the feelings.

to assume he might one day ask me to meet him in the parking lot

after I finished locking up the store.

in the darkness, sort-of-darkness, with the streetlamps,

he would hesitantly make a tiny confession,

wouldn’t even need to be something romantic.

all I’d need is a line like “I’ve never known what to say”

and I would lean over, kiss him, laugh into his throat,

to cure any leftover disparaging.

if I woke up on the written page,

a god would find the corners outside the security footage

and outside the blood clot in my head.

 

if I wanted grand romance,

thinkin’ about him would flit right out my head

available, interested, natural selections of men would flock to me

but I want for a book of standards less than I want for a book of fictional ones

apparently.

to be real is to acknowledge every flame tree in the hazardous botanical garden

the flooded battlefield.

if I wanted grand romance,

I could be cryin’ and wailin’ in a month’s time

instead of the mild disappointment of someone not flirting back

because all I did was misread the situation.

 

if I lived or woke up or wanted,

there could be crystalline breakdowns instead of palaces.

this fortress is impregnable, if you’re not him, or him.

this fortress is sunken down into [very] minor depressions.

little [very little] erosions.

because hell,

if I wanted to be alive, wanted to snap out of it, wanted to feel properly wanted,

there is hypnosis. rhythmic thinking. trains of thought with sleeping carriages.

other boys showing interest.

a scrap of paper just has a handful of words written on it,

he can’t hurt you if you’re just his bud.

not quite the same as good luck.

not quite the same as…

he’s queer so you could find yourself falling for him when you know you shouldn’t, but what is falling for someone anyway if not the thing you should be doing with your rupturing heart?

            and how long can you do this? this wanting his company but denying yourself the love?

if I lived or woke up or wanted,

there would be crying over a guy, all over again.

not quite the same as bein’ confused

over a recent friend from work

because he engages in more and more conversations with you. 

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- Keeley Young