i am lovesick without even living. i had 

a dream with a platonic fivesome and 

now i feel like screaming to taylor swift. 

what the fuck. 

so maybe i need a girlfriend. maybe i want 

to have my speak now moment in 

the pouring rain. i will be wet and cold and 

kind of irritated, waiting for you to come 

on out and sweep me off my feet. you won’t do that though. you will wait inside until 

i’ve had my fill and have hot tea ready to warm me up. 

i am not sure who i am writing to but informal 

pronouns make me feel like i am in the confessional at

some kind of messy church. i am on my knees, asking

for salvation in the form of sex i am yet to have. at the

altar is one giant vibrator. the whole place is designed

to look like an all-encompassing vagina and i am

equal parts intrigued and embarrassed. 

i put on fake nails and chip them off with a cheese knife

within moments. the glue sticks to my nail beds and i realize

i have no idea what a lesbian is supposed to be. i try on

butch and femme and stone and stud for size but none of

them get it quite right. i don’t even get me quite right. i start

to think that maybe i will never find this elusive right, that if i

look in all the wrong places i will locate something that fills

me up the same way. 

this is what they call a sixteenth-life crisis. it’s being seventeen

and lonely and wondering when (and if) your day will come. it’s

suddenly wanting to fuck your ex without having seen her for a

year. it’s the desperation and fear and falling into a deep

tumblr hole that just manages to exacerbate the anxiety. it’s 

questioning 

literally 

everything

about human existence and love and ovaries and ending up

in a place where you fall asleep without needing a dream

world to get you there. it’s imagining a reality that 

could be better than any fantasy written. it’s the promise of

happiness, of writing a poem and being confident in how it ends. 

it’s knowing how it ends, and loving that too.