I think I like you.
And if only I could find the right way to express how the way you look tonight makes my heart flutter.
You sum up my first grade crush, my eight and ninth grade crush, my junior/senior year five years in college crush.
You come on stage and the mc says your name and at that moment, I facebook you.
I comment on all your statuses and befriend all your friends. I poke you.
I read your notes and I join any group you are in. I share all your videos and tag you in any of my links.
But mostly I hit like.
I hit like when you say today is a beautiful day and the park would make you happy.
I hit like to your RSVP to sunday morning service with your mom even if it is Thanksgiving.
I hit like when you announce you broke your toe and you almost cried.
I hit like when you change your status to “its complicated”
and I don’t want this to be another facebook analogy poem but I can’t help it, I like you.
And though I’d like to think you’re just another boy with nice rhymes and poetic eyes,
its obvious to me that because I’ve never heard your analogies before you must be like no other.
And because I’ve never seen you style before you must have been undercover.
You continue to bless the mic night after tuesday night always debonair but apparently unaware
that somebody in the crowd is elementary school crushing.
And its apparent to me that because everyone seems to know you but me, I’m sure I could find you by skeeming a few friend list.
You must have checked it from your black berry because within moments,
our seven degrees cooled over and I start making my way to you.
Looking at your pictures and reviewing your status hoping for any clue that you have not taken a boo.
You pass my way but my tongues is having a bad day.
So I hit.
I hit like boys do in fifth grade when then realize that cooties are more like love bugs.
I hit like basketball games that I only play the tomboy so I can smack the boys butt.
I hit like high-fives praying that one day they become hugs instead of friendship ques.
And it seems like the more I hit the less you care about my status updates, my links, my comments.
I really wish you would comment that maybe I am the girl you wrote about in your notes
or that I was who you wanted to tag when you updated “she’s the one.”
I hit like.
And for six months I’ve been hitting like hoping you’d for one second acknowledge that maybe I like you.
And potentially I could be the girl you’ve been praying would just find you. I hit like.
Cause I’m so accustomed to hiding behind anything other than reality to avoid facing any truth that may resemble rejection.
I hit like cause I’ve never actually found the nerve to say hi.
Stories I Could Never Tell EDITTED
We were not married yet you said our bed couldn’t be defiled . . . . and for some reason I believed you . . . . . . believed you as if nails dripping holy blood came pouring from the brokenness of your wrist . . . . . you were content with ripping innocence from me . . . . this was not the prize of a king to you . . . no to you this was simply . . . I was simply legs spread, back arched, head held low while you climbed on top expecting me to be a good future wife . . . conqueror of yet another unbroken heart . . . . soul-ttached to a young girl trying to find the prince she was told came in suit and tie, decimals and dollar signs . . . . what I was not was in love . . . . yet I never would have known because love gave you rides home and bought tickets to expensive shows and always bought you new outfits for expensive shows . . . . and after on rides home wearing nice outfits from expensive shows, this my dear was simply a sign of appreciating a nice evening. . . . . So spit ladylike. . . . . and don’t cry. . . don’t cry if he decides to take it. . . . . . you accepted every good gift like good girls do but don’t complain that it hurts. . . . . He thinks he is God so this is just the price of the nails in his feet and the crown of thorns on his head . . . . we were not married but he thought this park was our marriage bed . . .and this car was our marriage bed. . . and his hands down his pants with my hands under the weight of 14karats on credit was not our marriage bed. . . . I was defiled. . . . . . not having enough so constantly at swap meets with my man . . . . Prada bag (spit) . . . . weekend trip (spit). . . . Baby please pay my rent (swallow). . . . as the dent in my heart ripped . . . he was not my father but the ache was just as familiar . . . . You taught me that my husband would love me like Christ loved the church . . And since I had lost touch with Christ, I couldn’t quite tell if this man was loving me like Christ did the church . . . . . Where I needed him to Proverbs 23 using wisdom to guard my life fervidly, He couldn’t seem to get past Songs of Solomon and all my bodies glory . . . . My body was no longer a temple . . . . he was a grave robber and I had died long ago . . . . so much so that love didn’t feel real if it didn’t come with a price tag . . . and I couldn’t respect love if not attached to money bags . . . .All I knew was that love remained humble on bended knee . . . So love for me was always accompanied by bending knees . . . . . he took no bruises for me . . . . stripes on his back, nails thru his feet . . . my man couldn’t understand what God did for me that allowed me to stand brokenly . . . . . . We were not married . . . . . . defiling the deafened sins of our souls . . . . . this was not our marriage bed and these were not our sheets and this was not our love to be made . . . . yet maybe an altar . . . Made of stained sheets and shadows of dirty secrets . . . to repent of these sins and walk away.
Shifting the weight from foot to wrist
Trying not to cry during love poems
Cause some girl got away
Purple eyelids he will probably never see again
From platforms and soapboxes declaring love
And preaching symphonies unaware
That he is all martinis and coladas
And she is fountain drinks, no ice
Mixtapes he made for her now are boxed up with the poems he never got to read.
Stories that only make sense if you were there
He lays them across his crossed legs
The weight of them screaming
love poems tell too much truth
About a love that is all a lie
He never sees anyone now
He stares blankly at the space on the stage
The mic stands empty
No words pass its lips that sounds like hers
so he dismisses every poem
He simply misses every poem written for love
But I’ve been trying to dance
Lifts legs in twirls and pirouettes
Toe to heel and shuffle
Slow and dirty grind
Give words to him through skeletons of myself Trying to move in ways my thick thighs and woobly
knees never approved of
All so he can see something just as stimulating
But not quite so dramatic
I could write you a poem
Tip toe through metaphysical fanfare
With metaphors and hyperboles
Script a contrapuntal within a haiku
Simply for sake of saying
I think I could forever with you
But he’s been staring at the mic empty on the stage
Waiting for a love poem that’s never going to get written
Unless he picks up the pen and watches me dance