I've never known graffiti and energy drink,
never spent my youth in the corner
of an alley, kissing a boy who smells
of pheromonal cologne. In fact,
I've never kissed at all.
And I grew up drinking coconut juice,
wondering if it tastes different
with two straws and two
pairs of lips barely gracing
each other. Up until today,
I love to write about heartbreak
without having shared an all-knowing glance
or nod with a man sitting opposite from me,
knee never bumping into mine because
I'm just a small girl anyway.
And I've never been in a cafe, daydreaming
on wifi and the creamy white smile
of a tanned barista. My laptop's too heavy
for my shoulders and I've never written prose
so why bother drowning in the smell
of coffee beans without the lust for energy.
I used to think I'd never marry, not because
I never loved love, rather because my thoughts
were unripe to the realist in my head, despite
the dreams falling in front of me like red, ripe apples.
But I'm not sad anymore.
If there's one thing I learnt from the walls around me,
it's that being lonely allows for more space to scribble upon.
I don't really have to say much about how great this poem is. Anyone who reads it knows. It's epic, an amazing, beautiful piece and I, personally, feel you on so many levels with what you're saying here. I could ramble about it but anything I say is going to pale in comparison to this piece. So I'll just say that the use of "creamy" when discussing a barista is wicked clever, the last line makes me struggle between being happy and being sad, and suddenly I'm questioning how much another straw would change the taste of coconut juice. Anyhow, I'm going to shut up now so I can go read it again. Wow, go you.
The last three lines sent chills down my spine, because they forced me to recognize the reflection of myself that I see in the image painted -- the dread I feel, that when I tell myself those very things, what I want the most isn't words or speech, but an angel with a sledgehammer, and that the scribble is just there as a distraction, from the pain of being alone.
This is such a neat write. I don't have many words in response to your poem because it sweeps me in the moment and into your thoughts.... especially how I see the change from beginning to end. That you are meant to be a writer, but you're not an obsessive or fantasy-based or dreamy kind that sit in those cafes. It makes me think that you are an observer more often, haven't had these big, film-like scenes of romance yet you still write about it... then in the end, it's the realist in you who seems to dismiss love. Though you still have faith in it.