My Thoughts Are As Jumbled As My Poems

When I was thirteen,

I knew exactly who 

I was going to marry.

He would be tall,

and strong,

with black hair 

and even blacker eyes.

He would be my protector.

I dated many guys with this description,

but they were always missing something.

Then, my freshman year of high school,

I locked lips with a pretty girl in the chorus,

and I swear I heard the angel's choir

when her lips met mine.

Suddenly, my perception of what I wanted changed.

That girl and I went our separate ways,

and I began building my perfect girl.

My girl had long, dark hair

with lighter, hazel eyes.

She was tall and well known,

and would stick up for me no matter the cost.

Soon after I had constructed my daydreams,

to my astonishment,

I saw such a girl walk past me.

She gave me a soft smile,

and that was it. I knew.

My perfect girl existed.

But oh, how wrong that word can be used

when you are young and naive.

I quickly learned that perfect 

came with a lot of conditions.

Stay quiet, only speak when spoken to,

only love when being loved,

and so many other rules;

but I didn't mind.

I was so in love with her.

I would've done anything to keep her in my palms,

I just wish I knew what anything included.

If I had known it meant staying quiet when she criticized me,

every day, 

maybe I would've left sooner.

If I had known it meant only being loved when it was

convenient for her,

maybe I would've left sooner.

If I had known about the verbal attacks, the ignoring, the blaming,

the leaving,

the cheating,

. . .

If only I had known,

maybe it wouldn't have taken me almost three years to leave

and I could've saved myself from the nightmares of her

crushing my heart between her teeth and then

asking for me back.

I don't know if I am afraid of loving girls

or loving anyone.

Maybe I am afraid of being loved.

No matter what it is,

I know I am a solution mixed of too many toxic chemicals.

How lucky am I now to be seventeen

and have found a beautiful boy

with dark hair and even darker eyes

to dilute all of the bad.

How lucky am I to have found my perfect mixture.

And yes, I know that word comes with a lot of conditions these days

but they are filled with patience

and piecing back together my jigsaw puzzle heart

with every kiss,

every gentle stroke of fingertips.

How lucky am I to still be that young, naive girl

who is still thirteen at heart.

How lucky am I to have found myself 

and be able to share that part of me

again.

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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