"Freelance" by Chelsea Sieg
every partner i've ever had
has gotten a small pile of poems out of me,
because of course they did.
most of them horrifically romantic,
because of course they were.
and every partner i've ever had
has given me this look,
this particular smile,
when they tell me that they're
“not that into” poetry
and none of them seemed to notice
how the printed pages wilted in my hands,
how a bit more of the light
withered away in my eyes each time,
how eventually i stopped showing them
poems, or feelings,
or other undesirable things
just to make sure that i was still
the “cool” partner,
that things were still “okay” with us,
that i wasn't going to end up
the subject of an anonymous reddit post
later in the week
and so years later,
when my mom kinda sorta hints
that someday i might want to get married
or “find true love”
or something,
i kind of want to tell her
that no man or woman ever taught me
that i have a right to feel things
and a right to bleed words
and a right to buy fifteen cute notebooks
and scribble dark and tortured poetry in them
and i kind of want to tell her
that i don't ever want to give that up
for anyone ever again
but i just shrug
and try to remember
to write it down later