codependency.

dear girl in my linguistics class with the Canada tattoo I
admire on your ankle,
why did you let that big glass door fall into me? two paces behind you, I know you knew I was there. am I not edgy enough for your approval?
I know we laughed at our professor together, that time when she proudly showed us a real photo of her vocal chords that looked like a very different part of the anatomy, and only made it worse by calling them folds, and I know in our immaturity we both scanned the faces of our classroom, searching for someone, anyone, to share in our perverse perception, someone to sympathize, and I know you were happy to catch my eyes.
what deceptive vocal chords.
did that mean nothing?
did you mean to let the door fall on me? does this have to do with my lack of brightly colored tights and trendy cigarettes? is my presence too reserved?
I'm sure I could make you laugh. thats all I really need.
or perhaps, you didn't even notice me behind you, and like always, I am allowing sensitivity to govern my perceptions,
and my perceptions to govern my self worth.
codependency.
I don't mean to judge you, I liked you when I saw you.
but thats my disposition, to assume good in strangers.
you're Canadian, who wouldn't?
I choose to believe Canadians don't make jerks who drop doors on hypersensitive just-short-of-trendy girls like me. theres safety in the stereotype.
after all, I don't know your name in a class of twenty.
Sara, maybe.