The Diary of a Manic Pixie Dreamgirl
Sometimes, I want to tell you everything.
I want to tell you about how I love listening
to overplayed pop music in the car.
Want to tell you I eat peanut butter sandwiches at 1am
and that I have been buying family portraits
at thrift stores ever since my parents divorced.
If I were braver I would fillet my own chest,
show you my fleshy, forgotten parts.
My anxious, swollen ribs and my fickle, flakey heart.
I don’t want to scare you off with it
but I know this dance too well.
I know that right now you are probably toying
with the idea of starting to call me baby,
know that you are beginning to
drench every thought of me in
bubblegum, fringed hair, and sundresses.
Please, don’t make me your sunshine
or your happy
or a better version of your mother.
I am so exhausted with boys looking at me
and seeing futures that I just can’t become.
The other night, we were spooning in your bed
and I wanted to turn to you and ask
if you believed in an afterlife.
Wanted to tell you that lately I’ve been thinking
that I know there is a God
but I’m not sure if he’s listening.
Right there, right then,
I could have told you everything
but I just kissed you instead.
B. E. Fitzgerald is a poet. You can read more of her work here. Her zines are available on etsy.
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