I was told very recently that I should not stop writing poetry, despite life’s tendency to make me procrastinate. But I haven’t procrastinated, not really. I started working at a job I really enjoy. Still doing Zumba (getting certified on Sunday!). And still making changes to myself I didn’t think were possible. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, and I have my friends, my boyfriend, my employers (both current and previous not counting my internship), and my family to thank for it. So here’s a poem about young love, because love should always remain youthful—butterflies and all.
Young Love, A Poem
I fell in love for the first time,
when I was seven
because at seven
Disney princes
were easier to come by
than Followers and #hashtags,
walls you couldn’t climb
and photos unfiltered.
I used a typewriter then,
to finish science projects and school essays
taking paper to the back of paper,
to get rid of a mistake;
and
if all else failed
used White Out
before White Out
was cool.
I fell in love again
at ten
when young love kissed me on the forehead
without me knowing,
one year older
but not wiser
that one day
he would break my little heart
like cracking open a piñata
with a bat.
BAM!
And from there the candy flowed,
pieces of piñata heart fluttering—
playing with the air like twirling curls
around fingers
(much like I did at sixteen,
because I’d seen it in a movie once).
And if he saw me now,
another piñata heart later,
he’d see me whole again,
plastered together with little bits
of super glue
and glitter,
sun glinting differently with every
life turn or “I love you”
whispered in older ears,
against the faint jingle of mnemonic bells:
a dream a heart had wished it made,
a kiss to wake from sleeping,
the dragons finally slain.