you're too young & eager to love

I was talking to a friend of mine earlier, and she joked about how she thinks she has a stalker. Apparently, the same guy has been at her usual coffee shop at the exact same time she's been there the last three times.

I thought it would be neat to get into the mindset of an obsessive stalker, so I took the situation, kind of, and elaborated. I may continue this. Maaaybbbeee.


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There’s a bookstore on the corner of Fifth and Vine, and you go there every week. Usually on Wednesdays where you meet another girl your age (another college student?) but sometimes on your own. You like to sit by the stretch of window facing the street, so you always pick from one of the tables huddled to the left of the magazine stand. If you aren’t meeting your friend, you put in your headphones and watch the nobodies and nothings outside, turning grey on the sidewalk in their loneliness as they pass you by.

Nobody ever looks up and catches you watching. They don’t see you. But I do. And I know, like me, all you really want is to find someone outside who matches all your pretty pink insides. Who is worthy.

Today, you order a White Chocolate Mocha at the cafe. It’s an espresso drink, but it’s also five dollars. Only pricks spend that much money on coffee, or children who have lived with a silver spoon in their mouth all their lives. Which one are you? You smile not once, but twice, at the middle-aged barista behind the counter and say thank you when he hands you your credit card receipt. Your automatic niceties make me lean towards the latter. When you take your too-sweet coffee, he tells you to have a good day, and I know by the way his gaze lingers on your collarbone too long that he’s thinking about fucking you. About pushing his greasy hands beneath your chamomile pink sweater, pressing up against you from behind, and maybe you’re the type of girl that’s just dirty enough to let him. Maybe your fresh-faced, Midwestern rawness is just a clever disguise, and you’re another two-dollar hooker that gets wet for a rough hand. Are you wearing a bra? I can’t tell.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, mulling it over in my mind, what your likes and dislikes are. What you might touch yourself to. Where you would do it. If you fuck on your green paisley couch or if you keep that one act private, hidden out of view.

I thought you were a good girl, I hope you are. According to your Twitter you have a snarky sense of humor, but you’re not self-deprecating like most waifs your age, the ones who read Plath and use her poems like band-aids for their own wounds. This is a good thing. I know the value of humor in today’s world. I know how smiling can hurt and how laughter can shield. You need to be funny to survive. You need to defend through absurdity.

Your brownstone is too nice and too devoid of roommates for a college student. You like your privacy, but you keep your windows open because the fresh air reminds you of your hometown. You’re still too foreign to New York to know that you have to fear the streets, the strangers, the unguarded eyes that can look right into your living room from the stoop across the street. But I like a little naivety. It matches your raw-pink mouth and the innocence that a girl like you must have.