I watched you two over the span of twenty four years,  and cultivated a definition of what relationships are.

I sought the ones who would hurt me less, only to learn that they still hurt too. I wonder if it’s this cruel long-term teaching that makes me uniquely sensitive to the ways in which even the subconscious, the delay, the hesitance, the unintentional, all bring pain.

And so perhaps, another person was never necessary, if another person only brings abuse and submission, even by mere implication.


act ii

my hips grind against him and blue eyes looks up at me, smiling, in a daze, caressing my ass. i collapse beside him, he wraps me in his arms.

“you have this sweater that you wear sometimes,” he says, bringing his nose down to mine. “it’s green and pink. i secretly call it your watermelon sweater. you look so cute in it.”

i laugh. i wince. i think back to seven months ago, lying side by side in bed, telling green eyes about the first time i saw him.

“you were wearing this blue button-down shirt with a print on it,” i say. “you were walking through the lecture hall, i tapped my friend, i said ‘who is blue shirt’? i need to talk to him.”

he turned his head towards the window. “i have a lot of blue shirts.”

on learning to like after you

green eyes has good teeth,

i should’ve been a dentist, he jokes.

seat mere feet from seat, four palms

two occupied with frosty clinking glasses,

(no salt on yours, he says, freeing one palm with a grin)

he takes off his rimmed glasses and wipes them,

“you look nice without those,” i say, he smiles.

your eyes were brown indoors and hazel in the sun,

your legs were short,

your shoulders, your gaze

cast towards your small quick feet,

your words sped when our tension thickened,

sludge-like with the absence of words until

our bodies found their ways to separate places.


hey, so i know this is probably not even worth mentioning anymore since that whole situation died down a while ago. you might be fed up with me, and honestly i get that because i get fed up with me all the time, and i recognize that i can be obnoxious and a bit much at times. in which case, advance apologies if this is as excessive and cringe-worthy and ridiculous as everything else I tend to do in life.

i owe you a really big thank you for being an awesome person though. for picking me up from some of my worst nights in college and getting me back on my own two feet afterwards, for being a supportive listener and friend when i’ve been stressed enough to tear every last hair out of my head, for somehow finding strange humor in the odd things i send you and share with you. for reminding me that even if i don’t get into my top choice school, i’m still capable of doing things at my second, third, and fourth choice schools, and they’ll be great things too. I’m not sure you ever realize, seeing as you’re such a great person that you’d do all of this for anyone, but it’s always meant a lot to me.

anyways, what i guess i mean to say from all of this is that even though i frequently snapchat you drunk selfies in which i’m waving my middle finger and captioned ‘fuck you, ___!’, and even though i once ignored you in the ilc– you were leaving from a class to go to a meeting, i was leaving a meeting to go to a class– and you said afterwards, that ‘it was almost as though you didn’t even know who i was,’ the amount of shock in your voice when you respond to things like that do something to me. they remind me that i’m capable of being an asshole, of being self-centered, ignorant and an egregious drama queen.

half of this is an apology, but my explanation for being so excessively bitter and spiteful and dramatic, is that I somehow ended up liking you a lot somewhere along the line last year. and for the first time in ever actually like-liking someone, i actually had no fucking clue of how to compose myself or act like a person, let alone impress, and so i strove to destroy at every single last capacity. i strove to make it clear to you that i could do better, and that i hated you, and that i was bitter and spiteful. I like you, i like you a lot, I sometimes think I like you too much, and I’ve never known what to do about it, and sometimes the best route of action is to do nothing. In fact, usually that’s how I handle it when I like someone– maintain straight-faced composure until it all the internalized awkward goes away and the other party never gets wind of it–, but for the first time I felt compelled to do something, and so I acted catastrophically and embarrassed my self a ton, and probably made you hate me (or strongly dislike, at the very least) on more than one occasion.

Until now, I’m honestly amazed that you even deal with me. i’ve tried exhaustingly hard to make sense of every word and clue and action of yours and it’s implications, to understand if maybe, you felt the same way. perhaps you do, and perhaps you don’t; either way i wouldn’t want anything to happen, because i don’t want anything to go wrong– more than everything I’ve already managed to ruin. you probably don’t feel the same way, which is fine, nobody’s ever obligated to like somebody back. i honestly don’t know why i sent this in the first place, except that i thought maybe it would be cool for you to know, but in turn, it’ll probably be cripplingly uncomfortable for you to know, which I apologized in advance for, but I guess another apology is definitely necessary. So I’m sorry if this is all so uncomfortable and unwanted and yeah. This doesn’t have to go anywhere or mean anything, and i guess if you’re super weirded out and mortified (which understandably, if some guy sent me a long-ass message vomiting feelings, i’d probably run for my life too), feel free to like, just forget this ever happened and destroy the evidence or whatever; if you accidentally fling your computer into a bonfire out of rage because I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done (which says a lot, considering I missed my final last week), feel free to sue and I’ll probably pay the damages once I”m out of student loan debt in a decade or ten.

as a last super super awkward and probably unnecessary side note, while i’m vomiting out every last thing i’ve probably meant to say for a while but failed at because that’s what i do: you don’t ever need to feel the need to consciously impress anyone. you’ve never put in an effort, and you’ve never failed to amaze me with how clever and intuitively smart and kind and hilarious you can be, for as long as i’ve known you. but agaaaiiiinnnnnnn i digress ok that’s all bye have an awesome break, if you don’t ever want to interact with me again i completely understand, in which case, congrats on graduating and have a cool second semester of senior year,

aaaaand on that note, here’s an irrelevant distraction

Feelings best translate to the nightmarish segment of a childhood funhouse, the tunnel right before the end, it revolves in an ongoing circular motion, and through it you scamper like a gerbil in a wheel, attempting to remain upright on your two frantically blinking light-up sneakers, but the omnipotent presence of gravity trumps all. There’s an immense O-shaped beam of sunlight pouring through and perhaps your mother or friends or somebody is flinging a wrist left and right, casting a frivolous beam of laughter up at the skies, oh she’s so precious, look she can’t walk right!

Feelings best translate to the contrast between emotions upon placing Piketty’s Capital in my shopping cart on Amazon, and struggling past the first ten pages. Tackling Capital seemed like a remarkable idea until I realized my lack of time, patience, and intelligence. Feelings are my useless economics degree, and you are a 600-page Amazon bestseller. But you could be any book, really; you could be Harry Potter and I’d be both the robe-clad girl in line for Barnes and Noble at midnight, and the bible-thumper who thought Voldemort to be satan. You’d be Twilight and I, both the twihard and the English professor raising my nose at lowbrow literature; the soccer mom flitting through Fifty Shades, and the Jezebel columnist condemning its misogynistic nature. Through and through, you are the book, demand exceeding supply and comfortably nestled at the top of all lists.

Feelings are necessary and you are the sufficient; if it were diagrammed, it would parallel a logical reasoning argument like the ones on the LSAT. If I went to class, then I got out of bed. Getting out of bed is necessary, going to class is sufficient. If I think of you often, sometimes with no clothes on, sometimes with your lips on mine, sometimes with your arm around me or just even doing none of those things and talking, smiling, laughing, showing each other the things we know the other would like, and then maybe kissing on the lips and each other’s necks and quietly giggling about how nobody else would ever guess that this thing could be ours, then I have feelings. Feelings are necessary, you are sufficient, and perhaps one day those dizzying feelings will dissipate at last. After all, you are the latter half of an admissions test diagram, you are the wheel that challenged me against gravity, you are the geekonomics summer must-read I couldn’t handle. Because some things that once felt so radically innate, like asking to spend time with you, suddenly place me at odds with the bare bones of nature’s power itself, as though gravity is gracelessly rolling me off my rubber soles.