(this is the wish i would make at 11:11 if i could say it all in under a minute.)
i want a boy- actually, it doesn't even have to be a boy- as long as she's willing to wear ties so i can pull her close for a kiss whenever i please. (but for safety's sake, let's say a boy, because girls don't like- girls don't get- girls like me.)
so, i want a boy who doesn't care that i'm just a girl, that i sometimes wear boy's clothes and doesn't give a shit about my lack of understanding about gender identity. or sexuality. i need someone else to understand my theory on everyone being a bit bisexual. (it's love, people, just love.)
this boy will wear black button up shirts that smell like laundry detergent and him (if he wears axe i will cut off his head) and he won't take them off even in the summer, so he burns with passion and is almost- almost- too hot to hug. he'll let me undo those buttons and run my fingernails along his taught abdomen, shivering- oh, yes, he will shiver, he will shake and tremble under my touch- and then suddenly become shy and push this hands away. (he'll never push me away, and even when i push him, he'll pull me back with strange strong arms that naturally slink around my waist like a belt, holding me up.) this boy won't wear belts. this boy won't wear converse shoes, but he doesn't have to, because i do. he'll hate my shoes because he's jealous. i won't write his name on them, but i'll draw crooked stars on the toes and he'll know.
this boy will have holes in his pockets so he'll keep his guitar picks in my back ones. i will slip them down this shirt when he wants them and he will raise an eyebrow as if to say "you really think that's going to stop me?" this boy will have cold fingers.
this boy will make love to guitars. and make love on pianos. and, yes, this boy will make love. (except for when we can't stand it any longer and ohgodineedyourighthereandnow so he fucks me standing up in the abandoned blacksmithing room at school.)
this boy will have a shaky voice that changes when he says he loves me. this boy will always sound uncertain with a certain certainty. this boy will have skinny wrists that i will grab when he tries to turn away from me and he will turn back and say in that unsteady voice, "take my hand, come with me. i'm not running from you. it's this world. this mess of a world." his voice is unreliable but not his tongue. this boy will kiss me like i told him not to. this boy will be going nowhere, but it doesn't matter, because he's taking me with him.
this boy will have long dark hair that he uses as protection (he's afraid to buy condoms because he's not that kind of boy- luckily, i'm that kind of girl) and i will brush it out of his eyes and he'll get pissed off because can't i just leave him alone?? no. i can't.
this boy- and maybe you can't tell, but i'm saying that with a hint of pride- this boy will have the dark kind of light blue eyes that make you wonder: when was the last time he cried? this boy will tell me when he cries. and this boy will tell me that he was crying over me and i'll tell him i'm okay and he'll look me straight in the eye and tell me i'm not. and he'll be right. he'll always be right and i won't be afraid to admit it. this boy will make me feel, if only for seven seconds, like i am okay. this boy will make me feel like i am.
this boy will have messy handwriting. this boy never learnt to write in cursive. i will steal the scraps of paper that fall out of his pocket and read them secretly, wondering if the "you" is "me" or "him." i will read my poetry to this boy and then tell him i didn't write it. this boy won't believe me. this boy will let me write poems on his arm. this boy's body will be my notebook.
this boy will have hipbones that collide with stars and e x p l o d e.
(what i wish at 11:11 instead is that this boy- oh, yes, this boy exists, i've known him well- will realize that he's not only the one i want, but the one i need... maybe if these words could find their way out of this notebook- i know it's a tangled web of inky deceit and my poetry has a horrible sense of misdirection- he'd understand.)
a/n: it wasn't until i wrote this about a "fictional" boy and it turned into his autobiography, that i realized i'm still in love with him.