the boys I used to know

The boys I used to know

I. (elementary)

The first boy I ever met
was named Rusty,
rustic short red hair,
freckles,
and knee high gator shoes.

He swung from the monkey  bars with me
our shoelaces sometimes getting intertwined,
my first best friend that just so happened
to be a boy,
and he was fine with my cooties
and red lips
that were kept pinched shut
out of fear of kissing fever.

Birthdays, and play days
we spent most of our time outside
in the forest behind his house,
mid July, middle heat, and runny noses.

All on our lonesome to let the grown-ups talk.

But soon, I would never see him,
and it seemed like he had left the globe,
when he was only a few doors down,
the next classroom over.

The first boy I ever liked was named Joe,
I don’t remember why I liked him,
and I don’t remember much about him,
so his story is short.

I told my mother about these feelings
and she sat me down,
just listening to whatever justification,
if justification was even needed.
“These things do happen.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
I distinctly remember answering nothing.

There was a thrill of keeping the crush secret,
hiding it under my shirt,
impregnated with that nugget, like it was some type of gold,
and I went on doing nothing with that secret,

eventually it went away,
just like a bruise or a cold.

Further down the road,
someone told me they liked Rusty,
all I could think:
“It’s just Rusty.”
the kid I knew down the block,
and I couldn't understand why.
I kept seeing his rustic short red hair,
his freckles,
his gator shoes.

I saw our shoelaces intertwining,
I saw what his face looked like upside down.
I saw the time we watched his bunny,
laughing at the way it hopped around in its
thin wired cage, rattling the cage a bit.

Then I didn't see him anymore,
I left the school,
was put into a private institution
and never saw him again,
but there are days when I think about him,
wondering what made us fall apart.

II. (the private institution)

There was something uniform about the way they dressed,
a marching parade of drones,
all looking the same, all acting the same,
all breathing the same air,
as if it was captured for them
by a tiny machine, lodged into their nostrils,
forced down their throats with breathing tubes;
I was one of them.

There was only one outfit I wore
every day;
long skirt, collared shirt
all in the color burgundy.
Where color shouldn't have mattered,
I was the only black girl in my class.
I never paid attention much to it,
except that I knew I was the only one,
and I knew that everyone around me
knew it as well.

In the real world,
blacks stuck together,
but I barely saw my sister,
and on the rare occasion I did,
I didn't know if I was supposed to pretend
I didn't or actually acknowledge that I did.

These were the confusing middle of the road,
middle school years.

I had two best friends and other friends
in school,
and we saw each other often.

I experienced my first bout of jealousy,
and I cheated, lied, and blundered only once;
after fifth grade and calling myself stupid,
I acquired a crush on every boy that I saw.

I remember the names to all of them,
and if I say them allowed
I actually may still start giggling.

The girls in my class,
would gossip and knit like old women,
telling of their great imaginations,
who their husbands would be,
what they would name their children,
but me,
I knew how to keep a secret,
never telling a soul,
even to this day
who I liked or
imagined loving back then,

but crushes were supposed to be temporary dealings
with the weakened heart.

Years from now
I imagine myself running into one of them,
a specific one comes to mind,
who at any moment I would drop everything for,
follow him to the ends of this world
and back,
walk up to him and say,
“I've loved you since we were kids,
I just thought you should know.”

But that was child’s play,
and then I hated boys in eighth grade,
leading me down blinding roads
to make the conclusion that I was just settling,
and the settling continued until
after junior year of high school
where there would be boys I didn't know
that I was happy that I didn't know them.

The boys in eighth grade aren't really
worth mentioning,
not even the games that they’d play,
their actions deemed stupid,
except to say I gained a brother,
learning how to distinguish between
friend and foe.

III. (high school)

There was a rule about boys in high school:
there are no rules,
girls shared boyfriends,
stole boyfriends,
broke up and got back together with boyfriends
all in the same week,
one day boys were gay,
the next they were straight,
then it turned out they were gay all along,

I hated boys some more here,
but then liked them again,
because their torture was inspiring.

I wrote about everyone’s failing relationships,
and thought I knew how to handle heart break.

I lied,
there is no cure to heart break
and I see that now.

When one crush crushes my expectations,
isn't that why they call them crushes?

Silly games of the heart,
I vowed I would never play again,
take things nice and slow,
breathe in,
exhale out,
refocus eyes on what’s important in life,
but once again they are blinded by the venomous ray
of “who’s he?” “What’s his name?”
“will he like me?”

The harsh reality is that not everyone will like you.
Some may even hate you;
there’s no cure to that either

IV. (aberration of nothing)

The look on your face is mesmerizing
when an answer dances on the tip of your tongue,
tied tight in a knot,
laced in ribbon,
double-knotted,
tied in a bow,
you shock me into a stupor.

V. (the fall)

There was something poetic about falling in love,
something all the greats did,
but they never lived to tell the story,
all dead deep in their graves,
or washed away by the waves near a seaport,
because they wished their bodies
would be bloated,
turning into mermaids
with gills, fins and tails.

One day I too will become a mermaid,
but will that be without falling in love?
and what about the falling out part?
how does that work?
where do I go from there?
falling backwards, back up to the sky,
do I ever make t back on earth?

VI. (college, still playing younger games)

He looked at me,
averting his eyes
once he noticed I was looking.

I soaked in his face,
all the words he was speaking
clicked in my head,
and churned some gears,
but I still couldn't trust him.

VII. (never trusting him again)

I try,
and he is so full of empty promises,
so full of what every other boy was full of.

VIII. (the song you sing when you give up)

I hate him,
I hate him,
I've never hated anyone as much as him.

Does he know I cry?
Does he know why I cry?
Does he know how fragile I am?
Does he know that all I needed was an answer?

It could've been no.
It wouldn't have hurt as much as his silence.

A silence that kills,

I wish he doesn't break anyone’s heart.

IX. (a continuation)

A story that goes on and on,
at some point it repeats.

Give me grief,
plunge me into the deepest,
saltiest waters.

I’m drowning I shout,
but it only sounds like gargling.

X. (he's not the one)

I think he heard my prayer,
my cries.
I think he knows I've wanted a friend
for so long.
I think he sees himself
holding me when I am cold,
protecting me when I’m lost.

I think he thinks about me often,
I hope he does not.

I can’t think while distracted
with silly feelings,
giddy feelings that make me weak
and not strong.

I want to be strong,
and he is only hindering my progress
I've grown so much
the least he can do is give me space.

But as soon as I get my space,
I am clouded with thoughts of him,
wondering where he is,
what he’s doing,
why didn't I see him,
 I guess it’s not meant to be.

But I don’t know,
if it’s all in my imagination,
this cold, this bruise will go away,

I probably shouldn't even call it an anything,
because I don’t want a label on an empty box;
it’s pointless,
and if I ever lost the box,
I would hate to mourn the emptiness within it.