I’ve heard that the first
time you fall in love,
you stop growing as
a singular person and
instead learn how to
evolve with what is
in front of you,
like the trees that grow
in loopedy-loops through
corporate windows and
flowers desperately sprouting
through the cracks of the sidewalk.

I’ve heard that the first
time you fall in love,
you revert to a childlike
state of dependency,
where Freud believes the
first stage of the personality
develops through the
ever-hungry need for oral
satisfaction. When you were
a baby, you had your thumb
in your mouth but now you’ve
got a tongue down your throat
and you don’t tell them that
you’re a big girl and you’ve
moved past that.

I’ve heard that the first
time you fall in love,
you ignore that enough is
enough. Your hands are
sweating and clammy but you
won’t let theirs go. Every touch
is a thunderstorm in itself and
you understand why people stick
knives in power outlets
because if liking electricity
makes you sick you feel as if
you never want to get better.

People spend their whole
lives searching for the person
that will fold their laundry
the way they like it but
the point is I forgot
a part of myself on your
bedroom floor and I can’t
find the courage to ring
your doorbell so you can
let me in to get it.


k.p.k, Done (via towritepoems)
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