Work Text:
dear american boy,
do you remember me?
i didn’t think so,
because when i look into your eyes,
there’s nothing there.
not for me.
(it wasn’t always this way.)
we were friends once,
back when everything was different
and boys and girls could hold hands
without being told they were in love.
we played together in the kitchen.
it was a restaurant,
our restaurant,
and we made food
for imaginary customers.
at least that’s what our mothers tell us.
(we don’t know what we are to each other anymore.)
so we smile,
attempt to make awkward conversation,
and i never say the things i wish i could:
i’m sorry that your father wants you to be a man
when you’re still just a boy.
i’m sorry that your mother forgets about the space
in “girl friend”
because she wants so badly for you to have one.
i’m sorry that your sister rolls her eyes
when you talk about your favorite things.
(i know what it’s like to feel alone.)
and i’m sorry if i scared you that night.
i must’ve looked a fright,
hair mussed, eyes wide,
sweat dripping down the small of my back,
but i wanted so badly for you to like me,
you see.
(i still do.)
don’t worry, by the way.
i won’t tell anybody
about the way you look at
your best friend.
but just so you know,
he’s looking at you too.
(it's okay to be in love.)