I never really bought that idea of love at first sight. It never made sense to me. Love to me was always a learning process. It was supposed to be a slow and steady thing. John Green said it perfectly when he said that you fall in love slowly, and then all at once. It was something you slowly allow yourself to be filled up with and then you give it away.
Interest in first sight might be more realistic. Someone caught your eye because they were interesting to you. Maybe it was their hair, or the way they walked or smiled. I guess it’s quite easy to fall in love with the things you see right away, the physical beauty and everything else that goes with it. But maybe that’s the problem, sometimes we get so fascinated by the outside looks that we don’t stick around a little longer to figure out all the things that actually matter in the long run. They’re the most basic things that are often overlooked.
I write about how we are and how you annoy me and how you make up for it instantly. I write about how irritatingly annoying I am with the nagging and the clichés I am so sure you’re tired of hearing. I write about us in different ways and in different places for different people to read, or sometimes just for me to remember.
I write about you.
I write about you because you can’t. I write about you because I’m not sure if anybody else will. (I mean, I hope so.) I write about you because I want you to see yourself through my eyes. You may or may not see this, and I don’t even care if you find this really cheesy because I know that you secretly like being written about. Don’t lie. You’re cheesy too.
Holding hands may seem like an innocent gesture, but they show more than a simple interlocking of fingers. Your hands are one of the most essential parts of your body: you build with them, feed with them, hold with them, touch with them, fight with them; they are the tools of the human body. To take a hold of another’s hand is to break from living individually. It is to link yourself to another being, to momentarily entwine your life with another’s, to promise, for a moment, that you need not face the world alone. More simple, more aesthetically naive than other forms of affection, i.e kissing, hugging, sexing.., the act of holding hands is often trivialized in its true implications.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me