poetry

They accept each other
the way they are.

Or—

he thinks she knows
what will make him happy,
and—

he is angry
that she
thinks she knows
what he wants.

She is angry
that he thinks
she thinks
she knows.

He says
she wants him to lose
his sense of self—
to be a part of her
to be a part
of her
life.

And this makes her mad.

She thinks
he should know—
that she loves him
just the way he is.

But—

he is angry
that she doesn't know
she is telling him
how to be different.

And—
he is angry
that she thinks
she knows
what is best
for him.

She is angry
that he thinks
she knows
what will make him
different—

when she accepts him
just the way
he is.

She is angry
because
he should know
she would never
try to change him.

They are angry
because they
don't know
what they
should know
about each other.

They are angry
because they think
neither of them
know the true intentions
of each other.

But it doesn't matter
what you intended
to say or do—
it only matters
what I think I heard
you say,
what you think
you heard
me say—

to you.

The best relationships
begin—
not with two people
who understand,
but with two people
who do not.

They think they do.
They try.

But we do not fully know
what the other knows.

We cannot.

Not yet.

I understand
your experience
only when
you tell me
what I do not know.

Because I cannot
know it as you do.

And so, I listen.

Without assumptions.
Without interruption.
Without shaping your story
into my own.

I do not rush to understand.
I wait,
I wonder,
I let you show me.

And somehow—
between the words,
between the silences,
between what is said
and what is left unsaid—
we connect.

Never assume.

I do not want you to "get me."
That would mean
you have already decided
who I am.

I love that
you do not understand me.
And I do not understand you.

We discovered each other—
not through knowing,
but through not knowing.

We understood
because we did not
assume.

Person 1:
"You cannot possibly
understand me—
or what I have experienced."

Person 2:
"You cannot possibly
understand me—
or what I have experienced."

And yet—

Together,
we understand.

You say
you understand me.

But how can you?

I barely understand myself.

And yet,
I want you to understand me.

But if you do,
does that mean
you’ve already decided
who I am?

Or are you still listening?

I say,
"You don’t understand."

You say,
"I do."

I say,
"Then tell me what I mean."

You do.

And I say,
"No, that’s not it."

You say,
"Then tell me."

I try.

But words shift,
meaning bends,
and what I thought I knew
is now uncertain.

So, I say—
"You don’t understand."

And maybe,
that’s the only way
to truly understand.

I want to understand.

"How can you understand
what it is like to be a woman?"

Okay—
I wish I could say
I have had the experience
of being a woman.

That’s absurd.
That’s bizarre.

I know.

But isn’t that why we’re talking?
To help me understand
what you’ve felt,
what you’ve lived,
what you want me to know?

You said
there are things I cannot understand—
and you were right.

No one truly understands
any experience
except their own.

And yet—
someone can explain,
someone can share,
someone can try
to help me understand
what I cannot understand.

I always begin with this:
I do not understand.

Every experience
in our lives
shapes the next.

"I don’t understand," she says.

"Neither do I."
"So, let’s talk."

"But you don’t understand."

"Yes, I know."

Does it bother you
that I tell you
I don’t understand?

I understand
that you understand
that I don’t understand
that you
don’t think
I understand.

But still—
I listen.

I think about experiences
that are impossible for me
to experience.

I understand
what you said
you understand.

You understand
what you heard me say—
when I told you
what I understand.

We misunderstand each other
often.

I like when we misunderstand.
When we talk about it.
When misunderstanding
becomes a way
to understand.

"How dare you say,
‘I understand.’"

"Isn’t that what you wanted?"

You confuse me.

I want you to know
that you don’t understand me.

I want you to ask me
to explain
what I understand—
so I can understand
what I understand,
so you can hear me
tell you
what I understand,
so you can understand
what I understand.

Do you understand?

I am thinking
about what I am feeling.

These feelings—
intense, passionate,
real.

I need to get in touch
with my feelings.
Be in the moment.

But my mind—
always analyzing,
always thinking
about feeling,
instead of just feeling.

Let me think about
how I can stop thinking
about how to get
out of my head
and into the moment.

I keep thinking.
And thinking.

About why
I can’t just be—
spontaneous,
emotional,
filled with awe.

I remember—
I was in awe.

It feels like
it just happened.

I remember
the feeling
of being in awe.

But remembering
isn’t the same
as being.

I want you.

My feelings are natural.
They grew on their own,
without intention.

And naturally—
I want you
to feel the same.

To want me,
as I want you.

To feel it evolve,
without effort,
without force,
without doubt.

I hunger for you
to want me—
naturally.

Everything in the way
you look at me,
the way your body leans closer,
the way your breath slows—
says it’s natural.

And yet—

you wait.

I love you loving me.
You love me loving you.

I love you loving me—
loving you—
loving me.

You love me loving you—
loving me—
loving you.

I am happy that you love me.
But unhappy if you don’t.

I think—
I don’t need you to love me
for me to love myself.

And yet,
I love you
loving me—
and us,
loving each other.

She loves me.
I feel good.

I was happy—
(a little, somewhat…
in a different way)
before she loved me.

So maybe,
I don’t need her love.

She is angry that I
don’t need her love.

He is angry
that she is angry
that he doesn’t need her love—

because she should know—
you have to love yourself
before anyone can love you.

…Or something like that.

I didn’t love you loving me,
before you started loving me.

If you stopped loving me,
I would not be happy.

But I was happy—
(theoretically)—
before you loved me.

And that is how you could love me.

Right?

You wouldn’t love me
if I didn’t love me.
But we would be unhappy
without our love.

Wouldn’t we?

We're playing a game.

Does everyone know
we're playing a game?

Does everyone like the game?

If you play the game,
it shows you care—
when you first meet people
in a social situation.

I need you to play the game.

Because I’m nervous,
and the game helps me feel relaxed—
when we play the game.

And it shows you care—
enough
to play the game
with me—
until we know each other.

But I don’t even know you.

Wouldn’t it be fake
to act like I care about you
by playing a game
with you
in this social situation
that helps me feel more relaxed?

Don’t be so serious.

Just play the game.