Really Pathetic Poems by a Really Pathetic Teenager

Love

I knew what love was... in the sixth grade. I thought love spoke in a deep voice and had broad shoulders. I thought love was tall and muscular. I thought love had rock-hard abs and would "still think I'm beautiful without makeup on." I dreamed of late-night phone calls and "no, you hang up! No, you hang up!" I dreamed of running into his arms and having him lift me to the sky. Turns out, my predictions weren't as accurate as I thought. Love wasn't quite what I had anticipated. Love wasn't what I was expecting, and love came when I had almost completely given up on it. When we first met, love had bright blue hair. Love is a lot shorter than me. Love is not muscular, love doesn't have rock-hard abs, and he doesn't have a low voice. Love can't drive, love definitely cant lift my fat ass into the air. But none of that matters because love is kind. Love is gentle and caring and warm. Love is comforting and somehow always knows what to say. Love will hold me when my world is falling apart. Love will hold my hand in the halls so no one else can see how hard I am shaking. Love will looks me in the eyes and without hesitation tell me how handsome I am. And love will tell me over and over again because he knows I don't think so and he needs me to understand that he does. Love bought me my first binder. Love hugs me every morning and kisses me every time we say goodbye because you never know if it'll be our last. Love says my name like it's his favorite word. Love impulsively bought two rats and let me name one. Love makes me laugh so hard I'm close to tears and love gives me butterflies that swarm around my stomach like a tornado and I can't help but grin at the sight of him. But love also gets sad. Love sometimes can hardly get out of bed, love sometimes isn't up for a joke. Love sometimes feels like he doesn't matter, love can get insecure. Love can start feeling like he's drowning under a big, scary tsunami of words and remarks that feel like jagged class and the insults are like razor sharp fangs dripping with acid and he says that my life would be better without him. He says it would be easier if he just wasn't there. So I try and find a way to tell love he matters. That he puts air into my lungs and blows the wind in my sails. That every time I have a battle he is there with the boxing gloves on ready to punch as hard as humanly possible for me so that I can survive. That he is my reason to keep living; he is the reason I'm alive. I tell love that no matter what happens, whether it's a breakdown or a hurricane or if he just feels as though he can't go on I will love him. And he always says he loves me, too.