i could write hate-poems about my mom all day

but i can write about love

did you know that?

i have loved more than a vague entity

or a silhouette

it’s only natural

i am a teenage poet

i have hormones and greasy skin

i have hands that itch to touch

and yes, i’ve felt that kind of love

that instinctual almost animalistic love

the one that has you licking your lips

squeezing your thighs together

but i can write about love

the kind that yearns for intimacy

just a brush of lips

even a finger or two

your heart will leap and

the weight of the sky will drift away from your shoulders

(they were always clenched tight,

presumably from slouching)

this kind of love

the chaste kind of love

i gawk at the thought of ever outgrowing it

any more than i already have

i want a brush of lips

to still be enough for me

i can write about love

i can reach into my memories of our early days

and regurgitate that feeling

onto the parchment canvas

but i may never get that feeling back

(so long as the fire in my loins persists)

i love and i crave

and i’m tired of being ashamed

i am young, i am hormonal, and i yearn

hold my hand and kiss me hard