All my life, I’ve been told that I am extremely nice.
with ill-practiced grace, I extend an awkward “Thanks”
because handling compliments has never been my forte. To be honest,
it’s tiring—laying myself down for the world to walk across. Even if first
they shake their baggage off at the door like wet dogs before inserting the keys
I’ve left for them. I know everyone by their footsteps. Impeccable memory—
except for when it backfires, and I look the part of a perfect stalker. Selective memory
yet I remembered that one of your exes was born in October. The look you gave screamed “How nice
of you to remember this piece of information I told you once.” I can’t explain how the keys
just clicked at that moment. Perhaps a part of me was dying for it—yes, I’ve been fishing for a “Thanks”
from your lips. Or just your lips on mine, but first—
or so I’ve been trying to convince myself—it’s imperative that I have clarity because to be honest—
(You know I am. It’s extremely easy and what you first appreciated about me: my predisposition to being honest)—
I’m the most invested in this…thing we got going on. Though, if my memory
serves me right—and it will—you were lowkey the first
to make a move. The move, transforming my image of you from “He’s nice”
to “It’d be nicer if his actions matched his words.” Yeah. Thanks
to liking you, my self-confidence issues have become as evident as the bruises on my keys
from backspacing, deleting, and modifying my messages to you. I don’t press these keys
because I’m bored. I want, beyond the physical, to see you for you—nerdy, honest.
Lying to you about how I feel is a protective tactic, but I haven’t been exerting the effort, thanks
to the fact that my time is almost up. I’ve decided to forget the fear, cancel the consequences and commit this semester to memory
as the one where I gave the least damns. The winnings won’t last, but at least it’ll be nice
to look back on—shaking my head about how crazy I was for “doing it for the plot.” So, I’ve decided that I’ll be the first
girl to write you a poem. Perhaps I’m giving myself a false start to the pedestal, but I want you to know that this isn’t the first
one I’ve written in frustration, admiration, attraction To…You can bet these keys
are sick of me. Always pounding on them, far from nice,
because it’s easier to be honest
in text than it is through speech. The feeling is relieving, sweet—like trivial details of yourself filed away in someone else’s memory.
You don’t deserve it, but I also want to extend a “Thanks”
for expressing interest in me. For being open and deeming this “fun” until proven not. “Thanks”
for your patience: it’s the bare minimum, and you’re far from the first
guy to tolerate my chronic memory
of all my flaws, thoughts, and insecurities. Through my transparency, I have willingly given you the keys
to my heart, beached on the shore of Love Like Island. In return, I merely ask that you be honest
with me: when people call others “nice,”
it usually means, thanks to contemporary semantics, that they can hold the car keys
but never drive the car. So, what comes to mind first when you think of me? Please, be honest.
For in all my memory, over all my life, I’ve always been one thing: single. Don’t tell me I’m nice.
Felisha Coley is an aspiring writer based in Toronto, Canada. She loves to read fantasy novels, cafe hop and obsess over punctuation. While a fan of literary fiction, Felisha’s true love is poetry. She enjoys experimenting with language and meaning across line breaks to express her
inner world. When she is not writing poems, Felisha enjoys playing volleyball and watching anime.
Featured image by Abi Schreider on Unsplash.
