poems

Dangerous Questions

Lines of poetry
swirling in my head.
All. About. Her.
I ask myself
What is it about her?
But really,
What isn't it?

I really,
truly wish
that she didn't know.
Or, at least,
that's what I think I do.
I don't even know that anymore.

Because of her,
I've tied myself
into a yarn ball of confusion.
Do I even like her?

Or is it just because
it's the first time
I've ever been so sure
that I am different
in the way I want to be.

These feelings
are like old,
faded jeans,
and I'm clinging to them
for memories.
Or more just for proof.
Because they're evidence,
confirmation,
that maybe
I can love like this.

I have so many questions.
I fear them.
Because,
I think the only one
who can actually answer them
is her.
And if she did,
would her answers hurt me?

What does she mean to me?
And why
does this confusion
only come with these feelings,
and never do they come
with boys.

Shit.

She looked at me.
Caught me
immersed in my confusion.

Carving it,
and a mess of emotions
into my head.

Who is she?
And what would she think
if she found this poem
and knew the person
who had written it?

And the one before,
and the one before,
and the one before...
I talk too much about her.

Or is it too little?
Think too much.
Hope for too much.

I could talk to her.

But every time,
After I think of my plan
and figure out what I'd say,
I see her,
and everything I had,
crumbles into nothing.

I should be talking to her.
But instead, I'm writing
this mess
of confusion,
on a page.

Instead,
I'm wondering
what it all means to me
What she means to me.
What love means to me.