Cancer

I wouldn't mind a chatty Kathy,
or a negative Nancy,
I just can't stand a volatile Victoria.

Love seems to creep up on you when you least expect it,
like when you're trying to find the flowery words to a new poem.
"Googling" birds native to New York City,
just to get your mind off the fact,
that the girl you want doesn't want you.

It's funny how life gives you what you want,
only to show you the fine print after you've invested yourself.
I paid my money, coins in emotions I don't usually carry around with me,
and now I learn things will never be the way I want them.

Young love is like that.
My brain isn't fully developed yet at nineteen,
so I can't blame myself for falling for a girl who doesn't want to be more
than "close friends with benefits".

I'm pondering whether this is even a poem,
my heart telling me  to write what I know,
my mind telling me not to be so fucking blunt.
What is it about the things I can't have, having me?

I could write about the bronze Hawk I saw flying over
the young people infecting my campus,
or the way the snow in the spring makes me wonder about death,
but I find myself penning her name.

The gift and the curse.
I couldn't stop if I tried,
and try as I may,
I wouldn't stop caring for the girl,
who half halfheartedly cares for me.