September 21, 2017

Poetry: “Losers, Weepers”

I have no idea how he folded that sheet of notebook paper so small.
Teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy, pocket-sized pleading:
“Like me back!”

He slipped it between the locker slits
So all the hand-heart drawn carriages
Could stop to stay;
Until I graced the gentleman
With a grateful smile
As he opened the door for me…


(Chivalry still exists
In between exchanging emoticons)

“Your hair’s so shiny. It shimmers like blue-black water on a moonlit shore.”

Thanks, but my hair is red, or at least it was, straight from bottle.

Substitutions, not uncommon in poetry,
But this is a love confession
Not meant for —

*Lightbulb moment*


Meant for someone else’s eyes;
Not mine.

My locker stands right next to hers.
No wonder he let his nerves make a mistake for him.
He’s been wanting to tell her this since gym,
When she picked him first instead of last for the team.
He never forgot that simple thing:

But in that first moment, that heart-in-my-throat,
Moment of devastatingly embarrassing dejection,
I became the black-haired girl, and felt his dream stir.
It was worth the confusion.

If I don’t tell myself this,
I just might slit my wrists…
Just kidding!
*forced laughter*
Good thing I’m a good sport!
Folding this confession back into a perfect square
Could get tricky, though…

So I took his note for her
As it was not intended for me,
And coveted each pen stroke that erupted —
Hot cursive hearts spewed from late-nights of coaxing lava —
To burn just a bit faster,
So maybe she would come along sooner.

Finders, keepers.


“Losers, Weepers”

Β© Jane Bled 2016-2017

All Rights Reserved.


Β© Telebrands Press | Colored by Jane Bled

I don’t dye my hair, but I digress…

Back then, I found a few love notes in my locker, all intended for me — except that one. Unlike the poem suggests, I didn’t keep the letter; instead, I returned it to sender. I still don’t know which girl he meant it for, but that’s water under the bridge. Maybe they’re living happily together at this very moment. I may be a cynic; however, there’s a wistful romantic clawing her way out of my heart’s grave as we speak.

Much obliged, readers.


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About Jane Bled

Dreaming, writing, singing. Curious queer human. Soul-deep; heart speaks.


All Things Jane Bled, Free, Poetry, Writing


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