An anti-poem for a girl

I never wrote poetry as a kid,

And I never hugged anyone from the ages of eight through eighteen.

I lost my virginity before I learned how to hold hands,

And none of my high-school pals knew me.

I guess, one might propose that I was afraid of feeling weak,

But you make me feel pretty fucking weak anyway,

knees shaking and shit before I step outside to look for your car,

God-damned mouth wired shut when you ask me a question,

So, whatever:

I was going to make this pretty fucking generic to be honest, with all the hallmarks of good poetry.

But let’s steer clear of antiquated cliche’s,

Cause fuck Shakespeare, and fuck his sonnets, and fuck his plays,

I’m not interested in someone I can compare to a summers day, anyway.

Because you know I fucking hate summer,

And you’re cooler than that.

And fuck flowery language, and fuck writing like some nineteenth century aristocrat,

Because you know I don’t really speak like that,

And if this poem wasn’t honest I wouldn’t let you read a single fucking word of it.

I’m not going to do linguistic gymnastics just to express the fact that it’s almost uncomfortable how much you make me feel.

Or concoct some intricate rhyming structure to let you know spending time with you is so pleasant that I couldn’t dissociate while looking at your face if I tried, and I haven’t quite been present like that in a long time.

Trust me, I get the importance of a good ol’ literary device,

Usually, metaphors are what make honesty easy for me, but fuck ’em,

Cause with you honesty just comes naturally, and I don’t know why but you make me sweat vulnerability.

So, like, I guess you can hold my hand, or kiss me on the cheek while we walk down the sidewalk, or whatever.

I’ll be weak for you once in awhile,

Just don’t be sofr about it.