I’m writing an essay
on culture and a sense of belonging.
I’m on my second all-nighter of the week.
I don’t think I like English Literature.
No, wait, I really don’t like English Literature.
I’m thankful for the posh words,
and how I now know how to say ‘bourgeoisie’
which is also fun to spell…
but I prefer the word ‘ambidexterity’
and putting my thoughts
into poems not essays.
I’m not smart at this academic stuff.
I was smart on you.
I will be smart on you.
The former and latter people I’ll someday love.
I can’t sleep.
Words on this
aren’t even polished.
I’m not even a third in.
Maybe that’s what my grade will be.
This was supposed to be a love poem.
But I don’t know you yet
and my veins are pumped
with a can of Monster.
It’s a long night ahead.
if you’re out there…
Let me burrow into your chest.
I’ll live there a little while.
You smell like home.