I don’t know why I’m afraid.

It’s hard to wrap my brain

around the collection of facts and panic attacks

I’ve had in the past

about the ones

who stain on my youth.

To be this bitter and detached is

sad and annoying.

I listen to myself and

get grossed out by how

soggy and rotten I’ve become towards affection.

So I’ll try to intrinsically convince

that each drunken kiss

and casual hookup

doesn’t tear me apart

to pieces in your sheets.

Emotions aren’t neat

like the shirts I watch you fold-

delicately running your finger over each crease.

I wish that were me.

Letting you gently bend me to your whim and then

place me softly back into your possession.

See-

I’m becoming too attached.

This won’t last.

I am just aluminum walls built against a sea

swept away and crushed by the rocks

and you are the moon- a clueless magnet.

It’s hard to wrap my brain around

the collection of facts and panic attacks

I have when I think about

what it means to want you.