The Queer Sphere

6. Falling In Love

Hi guys! This is the first poem I've written after being on a hiatus because of writers block. It sucks, I'm aware of that, but I'm posting it regardless. If you wanna contact me, do it via tumblr or instagram! I don't get on Wattpad often AT ALL!

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I. Your lips were the color of pomegranate seeds in the heat of summer, like bleeding strawberry juice left on your hands after a long day of picking. Your skin was as ripe and bright as fresh pineapples, your eyes, the color of plump, green grapes. And, my god, all I wanted to do was taste you, every inch of you - those sweet strawberry lips, that glowing pineapple skin, those bright eyes. I wanted to devour the entire fruit basket that was you, and when I was finished, I wanted to do it all over again.

II. I didn't fall in love with you, but rather the way you fucked me. Hard, rough, like you were trying to force some sense into me. Or maybe not sense, maybe hope - hope that one day I would deserve something so much better, so much warmer and kinder and sweeter than this, then just a good fuck. I fell in love with the words you whispered into my ear and the way you dove into me like I was nothing. To you, I was nothing. And to me, I was nothing too.

III. You treated me better than anyone ever could, but because of that, because you let yourself sink down into udder and absolute vulnerability, I took advantage of you. You told me you loved me and I said I loved you too half-heartedly, and just brushed off each and every 'I love you' as if they would be around forever. Little did I know that forever was much shorter than I thought it would be.

IV. I fell in love with you the instant you walked past me, but that was all. This love was quick - a tiny flutter in the corners of my stomach, sweaty palms, a quickened heartbeat, nothing more. This love was one you get on the street when an attractive stranger passes you by, and it hurts to know you'll probably never see them again. So, my dear stranger, you were one of my loves, someone I had fallen in love with for a split second. I do hope we meet again.

V. I was fourteen and naive - too young to care, but also to stupid to realize that when a fourteen year old boy tells you he loves you, he doesn't mean it. Being in love at fourteen was fresh and new, almost like stepping into the pool for the first time with all your clothes on. This love was different because I had faith in it, and the only reason I had faith in it was because it was my first love. His kisses were always dry and tasted like sour apples, but that didn't stop me from calling him mine. I wanted someone to hold my hand in the wee hours of the morning, someone to walk me to my classes, someone to flaunt to my friends. However little did I know that this love wasn't really love at all - none of them really were. Instead they were just a matter of feelings, emotions, and experiences.