the thing is
I'm waiting for something
that everyone knows
will never come.

I'm hoping that this thing,
if/when (probably if)
it comes
will love me
or maybe just appreciate me
like he does with no one else

But as I say this
I still know that
I will get scared
and push him away
or tell him
I needed to breathe

But sometimes
I lust for that
sense of suffocation.

Also while
I say these things I think about how
I can't wait.
I shouldn't wait
because I tell everyone else not to
and they believe me
sometimes
and maybe I'm right.

because life has horns and you either get stabbed
and chewed
and pissed on
or you grab the fucking horns
and pull at them
until your biceps (and triceps) are bigger than your fucking head.

But then I see the morning
through my doily-curtains
and foggy window
and think
that maybe I want to wait.
Maybe, just maybe
I want to stay like this forever
and feel lonely and confused
and have my far-away crushes
on every train I ride
every building I ever go in
Maybe I want to see the trees
and the stars
and the gray sky
and the green sea
with the waves rolling
like life lasted forever
for them
which it does
and my fingertips would be cold
because the only pair of gloves
with all the right colors
didn't fit my financial standards.
so I would be there by myself,
rubbing my hands together
watching my white breath
curl up into
the gray sky
and disappear
as I tried to breathe warmth
into my purple nails.

Maybe maybe
by myself
all together
and feel seperate.
I always liked seperate.

I'll probably end up, waiting.
For that one person
who will tell me everything
I want to hear
even though
when (not if)
I found out it was all a big lie
I would cut off all the phone lines
or whatever line of communication we had, that didn't require me showing my face.
And I'd cry and cry
and wish I had stayed alone and never
met that person
but I haven't yet met that person

who will find things in me
wonderful wonderful things
that no one else knew about
that I wanted them to.
who will later suffocate me
because I will let them
in my selfish attemtps
to feel beautiful
a queen
an angel
and then I'll end up not talking to them
and putting all the love letters
and poems
and gifts
in a dirty little cardboard box
and taping it with the strongest, smelliest duct tape I could afford
and throwing it into
the Hudson river.
and then I'll be in this same seat
feeling the same way
saying the same things.

But until I meet him
I'll keep feeling
this way.