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It's stubborn like my heart, I say.

The raisins and the cranberries and the peanuts on my desk have ceased to register as "food," but I reach for the lone brownie on the top of my bookshelf in hopes that putting something in my anxious stomach will stop the terror I feel from mounting any further.

I'd told myself that my heart could move on as quickly from you as you appeared in my life. I said I knew somebody who made me calm, that that person was surely the one I wanted, and God knows you make me anything but fucking calm.

But I tell you what, this would be easier if you didn't love poetry, which for some reason right now I can't seem to write about you.

Just as well. If I wrote it you might discover it later on, and how damn embarrassing. You already talk about how awkward I am all the time; I mean, really, who'd want to add awkward poetry onto that?

Never mind that you say my awkward is refreshing.

And that's another thing. Where do you get off making such good compliments? They're all flavored with just enough playfulness that I am allowed to accept them without too much embarrassment. Well, actually I have plenty, but never mind that.

It seems my heart's quite entrenched. It's camping out in misery and it will be there for a while. Not misery, but a pleasant sort of awkward place, I guess you could call it.

I'm quite familiar with "unrequited," and though I don't know what the fuck this is, hopefully it is at least that. I can handle unrequited. Maybe I can handle you and your poetry.

I'd told myself that it was easy to turn a new page and that so what if you reminded me of my first love, you were taken and I was looking for somebody different.

And no, I will never try to interfere with your relationship. I sure as hell hope writing rambly notes to you that reveal my binging problems and excessive repetition won't count as interference, because I have no intention of butting in.

...This is probably something more embarrassing to uncover than just awkward poetry. And this is rawer writing than I usually write, but maybe that's good.

Maybe love is stubborn. But at least this time the reason I can't let it go is because unlike others I've showered affections onto, you're the one who keeps coming back.

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body div#devskin0 hr { }

It's stubborn like my heart, I say.

The raisins and the cranberries and the peanuts on my desk have ceased to register as "food," but I reach for the lone brownie on the top of my bookshelf in hopes that putting something in my anxious stomach will stop the terror I feel from mounting any further.

I'd told myself that my heart could move on as quickly from you as you appeared in my life. I said I knew somebody who made me calm, that that person was surely the one I wanted, and God knows you make me anything but fucking calm.

But I tell you what, this would be easier if you didn't love poetry, which for some reason right now I can't seem to write about you.

Just as well. If I wrote it you might discover it later on, and how damn embarrassing. You already talk about how awkward I am all the time; I mean, really, who'd want to add awkward poetry onto that?

Never mind that you say my awkward is refreshing.

And that's another thing. Where do you get off making such good compliments? They're all flavored with just enough playfulness that I am allowed to accept them without too much embarrassment. Well, actually I have plenty, but never mind that.

It seems my heart's quite entrenched. It's camping out in misery and it will be there for a while. Not misery, but a pleasant sort of awkward place, I guess you could call it.

I'm quite familiar with "unrequited," and though I don't know what the fuck this is, hopefully it is at least that. I can handle unrequited. Maybe I can handle you and your poetry.

I'd told myself that it was easy to turn a new page and that so what if you reminded me of my first love, you were taken and I was looking for somebody different.

And no, I will never try to interfere with your relationship. I sure as hell hope writing rambly notes to you that reveal my binging problems and excessive repetition won't count as interference, because I have no intention of butting in.

...This is probably something more embarrassing to uncover than just awkward poetry. And this is rawer writing than I usually write, but maybe that's good.

Maybe love is stubborn. But at least this time the reason I can't let it go is because unlike others I've showered affections onto, you're the one who keeps coming back.