To The Boy Who Doesn’t Know I’m Writing About Him

I always love the boys who can never love me back. And then I always wonder why my heart feels faint in my chest, why it hurts when you squeeze it in your hands. And I always think about how your hands feel like firecrackers even when you touch the small of my back so faintly. But then I always remind myself that you only see flesh as something you can devour.

Trust me, I know that you’re a carnivore. I also know that when I saw her sitting in your lap, I realized that you only ever saw me as something to satiate your hunger. Isn’t it sad that I’d let you do it again? Isn’t it foolish that I’d let you press against me until I have trouble breathing — until the space I occupy and the air I breathe is all comprised of you?

Yes, we could sit here for hours. And you could talk about the way her smile makes you want to lose your patience. And yes, I’ll listen. But you won’t know that my heart will be caught in the base of my throat, my knee almost shaking as it presses flush against yours. And no, I won’t be fine, and I don’t think I ever will be around you.

But I will stay here forever if it means I can see your cheeks swell up when you smile. If it means that when my face is pressed to your back I can feel your muscles tense up under the fabric of your t-shirt. When she needs you I will watch you go, and when you ask me later why I look so upset I will say that nothing is wrong.