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Not Valentine’s Day

cupidownsa45
You know how sometimes you can have a memory, so clear in your mind, of when or how something happened? I distinctly remember a patch that I had saftey pinned to my tshirt and worn to school about ten years ago. It was a patch I made from a scrap of black fabric and wrote on with a silver Sharpie marker, the final stanza of a poem I had written. In my memory I always thought I had worn the patch on my shirt to school for Valentine’s Day, like a protest of the holiday. It wasn’t until I went back home this past December that I found the notebook I had written the poem in–complete with the date–and the infamous patch.

The poem was not written near Valentine’s Day, but in the fall, October to be exact. I had just told a fellow friend and classmate that I had the hots for him and had been patiently awaiting his reply, misreading signals, and torturing myself over the following weeks. I think part of me knew the answer that was coming, and I wrote a poem:

Bleeding Heart

White flag, I surrender
I give up on it all
I can’t sleep
Frustration beneath the surface
I can’t take not knowing
I can’t handle the tension
I am literally a mess
I can’t let you know
I can’t let you see
Even though you have no clue
That you are even causing this
Conflict is giving me chest pains
Today tears rolled down my cheeks
If this is love, it is a cruel fate
Horrible and wonderful
Creation and destruction
When will I ever learn to feel?
Is this it?
Do I have to suffer for love
Before it can ever be mine?
Before I can know what it means?
I feel like a fool.
I surrender.
I have no weapons
Only wounds
The bullet holes in my chest
Cupid owns a .45

Most of the guys I dug, rarely dug me back. The reply came shortly after the poem was written and it stung. Even though I think part of me expected it, I couldn’t deny that it hurt. I used the last stanza of the poem to make a patch, which I pinned to my shirt, and wore to classes I had with the classmate!

I surrender.
I have no weapons
Only wounds
The bullet holes in my chest
Cupid owns a .45″

He had no idea I had written this poem, nor that it had been written about him, it was tucked safely in the back of a notebook. But, the fact that I wore this patch to school, for him to see, pinned to my chest, was pretty ballsy. I still love the last four lines, and maybe someday I’ll work them into a song. Nothing more raw than teenage angst. I quickly got over it and me and the classmate were friends again, but I can’t believe how crazy I was to do that.

Have any interesting stories of Valentines, crushes or teenage angst you’d like to share? Share them below!

Mary

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