I know a lot about him, I think.

His eyes are so blue they’re grey.

He says “oh my gosh” when abashed.

He’s six foot two, that’s too tall to me.

Since I don’t even reach his shoulder.

He tried to hold my hand.

And he brought me flowers.

He picks at his jaw

When he’s thinking.

He’s older than me.

His legs are so long that it’s

almost hard for him to drive.

He likes my hair in a bun.

His curly hair is past his ears.

He wears big hoodies.

He likes sushi and rice.

He doesn’t laugh much, but

he sings to me in his truck.

He likes pastel colors.

He’s likes to cook big meals.

He likes my lemonade best.

And we listen to all the same music.

He memorizes lyrics in other languages.

He’s very religious, and he doesn’t lie.

He loves to hunt and likes to fish.

He wants kids and loves animals.

He wears dark baseball hats too.

He chuckles when I make smart remarks.

His hands shake when he’s near me.

So he keeps them in his pockets.

He’s too shy to look me in the eye.

He fidgets a lot, eyes bright and wide.

He looks at me from under his lashes.

He smiles when I say “thang”.

And when I sneeze loud.

He’s quiet when I shop.

His fingers run around the lip of his glass.

He owns his own business.

He doesn’t like getting dirty.

But he works hard outside.

He plays video games always.

His truck tag is a game reference.

He topped some gamer charts.

His favorite YouTuber died.

But he still has the hoodie.

We went for pizza and drinks first.

He met my tatted uncle, shook his hand.

So we went for Chinese.

Because I have to try sushi.

He was raised in the south,

But was born in another state.

He asked to take me fishing.

He doesn’t say “hey y’all.”

He doesn’t have the same draw.

He stares when he thinks I’m not looking.

And he smiles into the windshield.

He gets all the doors first.

And scolds me when I open them.

He takes the backroads

to bring me back home.

And reclines in his seat.

I have to run after him,

Because he takes long strides.

There’s so much I want to tell you.

And so much I hate to say.

I had to say it here.

Because writing is my escape.

It’s how I cope and how I heal.

And you won’t believe this,

But my therapist said

It was a real thing.

Called “Free Association Writing.”

After reading some of my work,

She said FLAW (L for Lyric).

I had- have- a flaw.

I developed it after years of torment.

My demons did it to me, my thoughts.

My past did it to me.

This is how me and them get along.

She said what I say, I mean.

What I say is how I really feel.

Which is why my stuff is so raw.

Which is why I’m so harsh.

My work isn’t just raps.

My work is me;

Cut up into pieces.

Medicine won’t help me.

But it was offered.

OCD adds to my thoughts.

To my writing.

That’s why I would ask something.

Over and over a span of days.

It’s a real thing, I’m serious.

That’s why I’m possessive.

Why something doesn’t leave—

Not until I get it out of me.

I’m sick, mentally. Really.

I said I needed help.

I meant mentally.

So listen to me, listen good.

Read what I’m about to write.

Because I’ve never meant

something in my life more:

It’s a sad story but

Me tumse pyar karti hu.

_ First._