grasping at straws

a poem loosely based on a dream i can't get out of my head.

I am consistently setting myself up for failure.

And I know you are thinking, "Oh, no, not another like this."

I am always holding onto the notion of kindness,

kindness that can only be displayed in a wet dream where he doesn't really hate you,

kindness like the bluest of eyes you know aren't the real colour of his eyes,

kindness that makes you wonder if it's really possible to be kind like that in real life.

I often have the notion that the world around me is infatuated with me.

It's not a god complex, it's romanticism as a coping mechanism

where my hands turn into flowers that a pretty girl holds,

but she is kind and does not leave me to die in a vase of dirty water

but leaves me in the Earth

planted at her feet.

I find that it is hard for me to let go of past loves.

Is "loves" the right world for that moment, that time?

When he held my hand I thought I would explode,

and I did, but only after he fell in love with her instead,

and I did, but only after discovering he was embarrassed of me

because I was a flower in the Earth that his friends had tried to trample.

I often preface my stories with a warning that my experience wasn't the same as another's.

Because a wet dream quickly becomes a nightmare

when it's the very thing you've been asking for since you met

when it's these cold eyes in a warm body that doesn't seem to make sense,

for it is too pale or too tan,

too much imagining and too many ghost sensations of his touch on your-

my-

skin.

Author's Note

yes, i do spell it "realise" and "colour". i would love to hear your thoughts!