'Menstrual Cramps' by Ravyn LaRue

Oh, honey-

Why have I become so enraptured with you

I’m too old for this

But I suppose it’s only part of being human

That’s what they all say, anyways

Still, I’m “one of those girls” who likes to think she isn’t “one of those girls”

Babe, you aren’t all that good for me

I suppose that’s debatable, since inspiration is inspiration, regardless of the source

And I’m writing about you, aren’t I?

But this enamoring is twisting up my psyche

I’m almost sure it’s something freudian.

You remind me of many paternal figures of mine

And yet you’re close enough to kindred for me not to reject you entirely

But you’re still a fresh green vine like me

You’re a wide-eyed idealist

And that’s just adorable in someone of your age and status

Not for me.

Every part of my identity goes in waves, and the tide has become less steady.

I feel a big part of this is seeing how steady one great sea can be-

You still have all that makes a sea a sea.

Your waves are just less catastrophic than mine.

Striving to impress is for dorks who have no sense of artistic integrity.

Still, I’m succumbing, and often find myself thinking-

“Hey, I wonder if my beloved so-and-so would appreciate this…”

I’m no better than anyone, and I’m succumbing to a whole lot.

But this doesn’t feel like me, yet.

I like thinking in ambiguity, but I always figured my identity was a pretty darn lucid thing.

I don’t believe all that much in astrological signs as matchmakers-

But if the stars are right, it’ll explain this otherwise uncharacteristic phenomena.

I’ve unbuttoned my jeans- nothing devious, mind you, just the pain was getting to me.

I know we’re in public, but I don’t give a damn about these sort of things, you know.

The waiters do, but fuck them; they aren’t in my position, who are they to judge.

Fine, I’m decent again.

I don’t want to get us thrown out, but anyways, you’re a charming little jerk.

I wanted nothing more of you, at the beginning, than someone to listen to.

You were the one who started all this.

You’re inherently infused with pathos, and I’m prone to nurturing needs.

I know that you and my other beloveds are years older than I, but age is just a number.

That thought gets sickly fast, but I’m harmless.

They say beware the nice ones, and I think that’s part of the reason I gravitate towards you.

We have that in common.

We’re sweethearts, really, perhaps eccentric as fuck, but sweethearts.

Although if anyone does someone terrible our passion electrifies and we are unstoppably intense.

We’re scary and I love to scare, when justice is the prize to be won.

That’s another thing- you and your antics give me courage to face all those miserable pigs.

I’ve got this, don’t worry.

That’s why I like wendigos so much- and no, I don’t think you’re one of them, but I’ll be honest, you’d be a great demon, babe.

But Wendigos were people once, usually, and they had sweetheart souls.

But past the breaking point, all is prey and vengeance.

You’d be a good wendigo.

I love beautiful crazies, perhaps since I most likely am one.

And I’ve got that beautiful thing down by now.

I have just as many shatters of identity as you, and I’m ready to explore them.

Oh God, I’m writing all the power out of my computer, but I think that’s a good sign.

You’re just as aloof and unreachable as my past idols of adoration, but there’s a benefit to not knowing you as well.

Firstly I’m self aware, from age, that this is just a carnal thing, and nothing will come of it.

But more importantly, my previous was my friend first, and my heart imploded because I knew then that the entire time I spent with him was merely for the sake of him trying to manipulate me.

And I was young, and dumb, and perfectly content with being a Renfield.

I most certainly am not satiated with being a lackey anymore.

I’m only satisfied with being the protagonist of my story.

Anything else is untapped potential, and that’d be a tragic thing.

I want to proclaim all the truths of my stupid past, to you.

But only because I’ve listened to yours so long, that I don’t doubt you’d lend an ear.

Even if you deafened yourself with empathy, I’m a big believer in catharsis.

Unlike my brother, my method for dealing with travesties is to cry out to the heavens and keep crying and keep screaming and keep expressing in any way possible until you begin to feel some sort of dull flickering joy.

I then take that spark and run with it.

Some travesties are never-ending, but you deal.

My brother loves repression, and lingering pain.

To each their own, they say.

I love your unabashedness, if you feel something, you go all out with feeling it, and that’s admirable to me.

Some call that insanity, I call it beauty.

I don’t mean to turn this into a manifesto, I already have one of those- it’s more simplistic than even this.

I tell many people that they have my heart, that I love them, because I do.

And this polyamorous attraction is what motivates me to write, half-love poems, as often as I do.

I wonder what will happen when I finally fall head over heels with someone.

I’d write 28 pages minimum each night, documenting any and everything about them I find beautiful.

I have many deities in my life, humans who I adore so whole-heartedly that I see their flaws as “well-rounded attributes” and love them accordingly.

I’m pansexual, probably because I adore everyone I meet to some degree or another.

There are some that I just love to loathe; my heart soars when I curse their names- and hey, that’s something good, at least!

I’m just another oddball teenager trying to come to terms with identity and crushes, but I am so pleased with this life.

My mind flits about, but I’ll have you know, you, among all my other beloveds, have a dear place in my hot-air-balloon heart.

I hope caffeine is good for menstrual cramps, because if it isn’t, I’m surely screwed.