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Starving for Connection / baggy

Updated: Mar 21, 2023

I just want to talk.

I want our words to intertwine like melodies,

and I want those melodies to turn into songs

that I can listen to on my way to class.

No, I don’t want to feel your touch

the first time we meet,

and no, I don’t need you to give me

anything I didn’t explicitly ask for.

I’m not giving you any of my body

when there’s barely enough of it for me

to revive my own thoughts healthily,

when there’s not yet enough of it for me

to know I’m worth more

in a society where wearing less is more,

when there’s not yet enough of it for me

to give you the benefit of the doubt

that you asking to hang out past ten

is just to get to know me.

It’s not.

It’s not to get to talk.

It’s not to get to learn what my voice sounds like

before you go expecting something more—

before you go expecting to know what it sounds like

when I wake up in the morning.

I need your words to bring me some life

because I’ve been losing some.

Every time someone tells me it’s okay

to not know the person

when all I want

is to know everything about you:

to know what makes you

turn and tick,

what makes you passionate,

what would you pick

between love and lust—

I know the answer

but I’m still starving for connection.

I want to be asked these questions.

I wish hooking up wasn’t invented.

In a life where less is more,

where how you dress is more,

where baggy shirts are criminal

but tight shirts

make you a whore;

I’m getting tired of

wearing baggy clothes

so that you’ll listen to my words.

So that you’ll listen to them

and they’ll resonate.

I don’t want to hear a whistle

on my way down the street.

I don’t want to hear you clapping

as you drive by,

applauding me

for not screaming something back.

I don’t want to see your smirk

out the window

when you get the reaction you wanted from me.

I don’t want to feel your eyes

on everything but mine.

I want to hear my own footsteps,

so I can listen to

the only sound

that has ever brought me anywhere.

Because I clearly can’t count on the sound

of your voice,

or the weight in your words,

or the sound of a melody,

or a text at ten o’clock that reads:

"Want to talk?

I’ll just listen."

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