Not a poem.

Before I start my poem, tell me a few things.
About when did you mould your clay into an altogether different pot that doesn't feel like you.
When did you become this person who's a walking dictionary of all that is flawed?
Look at you, what happened to you?
When did you start to add meanings to words all on your own?
Meanings that are meaningless to their root?
Tell me when did the word gay mean homosexual to you when all it ever meant was happy.
And tell me since when did your brow start to raise in a questioning manner each time you saw someone who looked a little different from what you assume to be 'decent'
And tell me since when did decency start to house itself in those legs without hair or those clothes that cover you Full?
Since when did your body host all religious beliefs and when exactly did you start to defend all that doesn't even exist?
I want to write a poem and believe me I'll start with it soon, but first tell me.
Tell me honey that since when did amber only mean to you the shade of lords and not of all the brilliant short dresses that you threw out of the window last night because they sinned your wardrobe.
And tell me why does love mean lie?
Or why does heart mean black?
Why is the sea all about ashes and why does the word man mean nothing but anger.
Why does female mean silence and why on earth would you tell me that LGBT is just another word for sinners.
I intended to write a poem, honey.
I guess I wrote an eulogy instead.

Things to know before you make an attempt at me.

I had known falling in love is one thing that doesn't come easy. And honestly, 'honesty' is all I had to give away.
Last summer, while I was at Nana's I made a list of things I'd tell the man who I happen to fall for. Last summer, I made a list of things I'd tell you.

One.
I had a troubled childhood and I happen to go back to the seven year old me and whine about not wanting to go to school afraid I'd have to come back to a house without mommy.

Two.
My brother has hit me enough times for me to have nightmares about the same and tremble under the perfectly knit designer sheets that only cover me half. If only there were a Richter scale to measure the tremble inside of my bones would you ever know what I'm talking about.

Three.
The first time I ever dated a guy, he was seven years elder to me. And I'd be lying if I said I only have a bleak memory of him since I was just 12, because it still haunts me each time. The bed. The screams. The blackouts. The fucks. The pain. By the time I was 13, I had already seen two men ruin my entire goddamed existence and that's where I framed my opinion about men.
One from the man who was supposed to be my epitome of love. Other from the man I almost thought I was in love with.
And yes, that's exactly where all my sexist comments come from.

Four.
I have a number of cuts on my skin. And a lot more under it, somewhere still etching themselves on all those nerve cells that were left that time.
And there's too much shivering from the winter inside of my frozen blood.
So each time you ask me why, the cuts or the shiver? I only tell you I just drank too much back then to remember about the cuts , and I dwell myself too much in smoke to recall about why I was shivering the other night.

Five.
Look, I'm used to loneliness. So, there will be a lot of times I'm going to get on one side of the bed and crumble under my blanket pressing my boobear tight against my chest not knowing that you are waiting on the other side.

Six.
I've dawned anxiety since I was in ninth class and it still has it's roots in my brains. So you see ,love. The mood swings are inevitable and you're never going to know when you might be the one to upset me for no reasons at all.
I never really got over this tiny issue of mine and it seems to love me like a mother who loves her child too dear to let her go off her arms.

Seven.
Making me meet your friends or family is a terrible idea , and you can trace the reason in the way I acted around you when I first met you.
I am all awkward around people and I will always be too much for them to take. You see, I say a lot of things I don't mean and a lot things people don't understand. I Live in the constant fear of being judged and I end up being judged for all that I do because I didn't want to be judged in the first place. You see, how I use one word too many times, do you?
And just so you know, worthless is my favorite.

Eight.
I had a drinking and smoking problem back in eighth grade. It lasted quite a while. I even did drugs back then, I'm a completely changed person now, but trust me nobody from high school will tell you the same. It took a lot to get rid of it. But they'll only tell you of the person you'd never want to hear about.
You'd know about the girl who went to clubs and sheesha bars not about the one whose ideal date would be on a couch back home and with cheese burst pizzas and some Elvis Presley on, while splurging on it.

Nine.
You see I saved all the good things for this. This is about you. And me. About the two of us.
You know how nine is my favorite number because 18 is my birth date and it adds up to it?
This one's for all the beauty there is in the freckles on your skin that house constellations in them, orion on the little left of your right cheek being my favorite? This is for the nebulas that float in the skies trapped inside your eyes. This is for the poor kid by the metro station you bought candy for.
This is for how I fell for you. 
This is only about honesty and for the promise of always being honest no matter what.
And this, my love is where I tell you that I didn't tell you all of my life story because I want your sympathy. I just want you to know me inside out before you make an attempt at me any further, and if the person I am in the least scares you, walk away. Right this second. We've not come too far.
This is for us, for what you choose to do of us.

Subjects.

I never knew much astronomy,
But he was always my sun.
And I
Were his moon.
The way his ambers always made my
chest glisten in the dark.

I know no geography
But he was my plains
And I was all the vegetation
That found it's roots in him.

I know no biology
But he was my heart,
soft and pouncing at twice the speed
Each time I felt his skin against mine.
And I was the mitochondria in his cells,
Each of them keeping us alive
Making us indestructible.

I know no politics
But he was the dictator
And I were the the follower
Following his words
Like satin on my burial ground
And sinking inside it

I know no psychology
But it's only him who keeps
Me sane in this insane world
Keeping my bipolarity at bay
And anxiety at my fingernails
Cutting them off every few days.

I know no history
For I trace mine in him
He the emperor of the sultanet
And me the daasi he fell in love with
Ours was a typical love story
Lost in the pages of history books for seventh graders.

I know no chemistry
But he and I were sodium and oxygen
Burning bright in each other's presence.

I know not much literature
But he's my Henry chinaski
And I'm all his women, combined.

I know no love, I swear.
But he is it.