There are minimal downsides to being a Poet,
But one of the few is that it's difficult to simultaneously be One
As well as the girl you want me to be.
It's difficult becuase we'll be in English class,
Analyzing the intricacies of Shakespeare's Hamlet,
But you're stuck on Act 3, Scene 2, Line 11,
In which Hamlet says to Ophelia, "Nothing,"
And nothing is zero and zero looks like a vagina so obviously Hamlet is calling Ophelia a vagina hahaha.
This is why it's difficult
It's difficult because we'll be laying on my rooftop at twighlight,
Staring at the stars and their outlines fading into view,
And I'll want to ask you what you think lies behind those clouds,
But you want to hear about what lies beneath my clothes.
It's difficult for me because I want to be
Like Edgar Allen Poe,
Not just one of your Edgar Allen Hoes.
It's difficult for me because there are a million enchanting words
I could use to describe how
The sunlight illuminates the crimson on your cheeks
And how you swept me off my feet
And how my heart beats so fast I can barely think--
But there are very few enchanting ways to say, "No."
I always try to look for the beauty in words
Because that's the way I want my Poetry to be heard,
But there is no way I can relate allegories and spin metaphors
To tell you,
"Please, get your hands off me."
That night I coudn't tell you
To get your tongue out of my throat,
As it was blocking all the similes and alliterations
Denying you consent.
Afterwards, when I sat curled up
In the passenger seat of your car,
You put my seat belt on for me (how ironic)
Because I was too busy trying to drown out everything,
Eyes closed, trembling between beating waves of nausea.
The note you scribbled in my phone reading,
"Don't worry. Text me when you wake up.
Hope you're okay in the morning,"
Was anything but a sonnet.
The days following, I felt as though
My body belonged to a foreign entity,
As if it had been swapped in my sleep
For another--a synonym of what I used to know.
I was trapped in a paradox of
The same unfamiliar skin, bone, and muscle
That had housed me my entire life.
The stanza that I need to throw out, however,
Includes the refrain I keep
Repeating and repeating, over and over
In my mind:
That it's MY FAULT...I knew what I was walking into-
That it's MY FAULT...I took the first drink-
That it's MY FAULT...I still haven't refused you.
But in all honesty,
I can never completely blame you,
I can never completely hate you,
And I can never completely love you again.
Contending two antitheses, my mind and tongue
Are fighting an internal conflict on the battlefield of you,
And as to what I'll say next I have no clue.
But I know I'm a poet, and what I can do
Is write, though it may not be in the form of iambic pentameter,
My first Poem for "No."