Tales of Unrequited INFJ Love: Poetry Unit

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Poetry Unit

A Short Story by Ashley C. Cantave

“You know, half the time I don’t have a clue what these guys are saying,” Marshall said one day. We were seatmates in tenth grade English, and we had just started our poetry unit.

“One thing you might want to consider,” I told him, “is not always aiming to figure out what the poet was trying to say. Instead, focus on what the poem means to you.”

“But how can it mean anything to me if I don’t understand what the heck it’s saying?”

I shook my head and laughed. I had known Marshall since freshman year, and whenever he pretended to be utterly confused by something I knew he understood better than he let on, it always made me laugh.

I think he knew it made me laugh and that’s why he did it. But as much as I wanted to believe this was special treatment he reserved for me, I knew he liked to make all girls laugh.

I would often watch him when we were in the cafeteria eating lunch. I always sat at a table with my friends—a table typically far from the table where he sat with his friends. And while my table was always a girls-only table—not on purpose, that was just how it turned out—his table had a mix of boys and girls.

I would stare at them and note how often the girls at his table laughed after he spoke or made a silly face, most likely imitating someone or dramatizing something. The girls didn’t laugh that much after anyone else at his table spoke.

But even though he didn’t reserve this penchant for me, I sometimes let myself believe he did. Sometimes I let myself believe he tried to make me laugh because he liked me. And I often wondered how I could let him know I liked him.

How could I tell him I wanted to be the only girl he tried to make laugh?

The English poetry unit gave me an idea. Valentine’s Day was coming up. I could write Marshall a poem where I confess my feelings and give it to him that day. That would be easier than telling him directly.

And though I knew he only pretended not to understand poetry—his quiz grades showed that he had a thorough understanding of the subject—I would try not to use too much figurative language. To avoid ambiguity, which could result in him misinterpreting my words or feelings entirely, I would express myself as clearly as possible—while still being poetic.

That afternoon, as soon as I got home, I started drafting a poem. It went through several revisions before I finally found the tone I was searching for.

First, I thought I would start the poem by evoking thoughts of my favorite season.

Sing me a lullaby
That speaks of the fall,
That calls to mind red leaves
And yellow
And all. 

I thought that could be the beginning of a nice poem about something else. But I couldn’t tell how to get from this beginning to confessing my love for Marshall. So, I began again. 

Your blue eyes are like sapphires
In a porcelain face
That whisks me away
To a faraway place.

No. Again.

Your words make me laugh.
When I think of you, I smile.
When I see you in my mind,
I disappear for a while
To a place where you know
Just how I feel
And you feel that way, too.
Yes, you feel what I feel. 

This was a much better start. I liked the tone of the poem and the simplicity of the words. But it would take me two weeks of editing and re-editing until I officially declared the poem done.

When I think of you, I smile.
Your words make me laugh.
It seems you’ve been gone a while
When a day or two have passed. 

I wish that I could tell you
How I long to be with you,
How I long to hear you tell me
That you’re longing for me, too. 

Instead I’ll write this poem
And hope it helps you see
Every day we’re not together
Is a day it’s hard to breathe.

 Will you be my Valentine?

I wrote my final draft on a red piece of heart-shaped paper that I cut myself. And for the next two days, I mentally and emotionally prepared myself to give my confession to Marshall.

*****

On Valentine’s Day, I made sure to get to English class early. Immediately after I arrived, I placed the red heart on Marshall’s desk. Then I waited.

And as I waited, one girl placed a Valentine’s Day card on his desk, on top of my poem. And another. And another. All in all, there were eight other Valentine’s Day cards covering my poem.

Though I didn’t relish the idea of being just one of many Marshall admirers, I didn’t think the pile would matter much. All the other Valentines were store-bought cards that didn’t seem to have any personal touch. And I could be fairly certain that none contained a handwritten poem it took two weeks to compose.

And if nothing else, my Valentine would be the last one he saw. Hopefully that meant it would have the most lasting impression, prompting his first thoughts after going through the pile to be of me.

But that was when it hit me. In my eagerness to write and give the poem, I had forgotten to sign it. How would he know who had written it now?

Quickly, I reached over to grab my Valentine. But before I could even touch the pile, Marshall appeared. I withdrew my hand and lost my nerve. I couldn’t sign the poem now, and I couldn’t tell him I wrote it. I would just have to hope he recognized my handwriting or maybe the tone of my words.

As my seatmate, he had edited a few of my essays. Maybe he would know I had written the words simply because of the familiarity of their character. And if he didn’t recognize the writing or the character, I would have to find the courage to tell him the truth.

I pretended to be focused on reading a poem for class when I heard him say, “Whoa,” upon seeing all the cards for him. He slid his backpack off, sat down, and began to go through them.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him smile at one card, smirk at another, and laugh after a third. It didn’t take him long to read all of them, so I knew there weren’t any lengthy, heartfelt messages inside.

Even so, I saw the girls who had left the cards for him sneak glances at him as he read them. Occasionally, he would glance back, but then he would continue working his way through the pile.

With every card he read, I could feel myself growing more anxious. My leg started bouncing under my desk, and I had to pick up the book with poem I was reading to give my hands something to do.

Finally, he got to my poem. My leg was bouncing uncontrollably. My heart was pounding. And I was burning on the inside. It took him long enough to read it that I knew he wasn’t just skimming it. He was reading every word. I was grateful for that since I had chosen every word carefully.

Our English teacher began class while Marshall was still reading the poem. As the teacher went into his lesson, Marshall wrote something on the other side of the heart. I couldn’t make out what it was, but I had decided that, the moment we had time to speak to our seatmate, I would tell him I wrote the poem.

Marshall folded the heart in half and placed it in one of the zipped pockets on his backpack. After stuffing the other cards into the main section, he pulled out a notebook.

Fifteen minutes of class time passed before partner work began. But right when I was going to confess my authorship to Marshall, he said, “I can’t believe how well this worked out.”

“What do you mean?” I wondered, still determined to tell him after he explained his remark.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell this girl that I like her, but I haven’t been able to find the words. Now it looks like someone just gave them to me.”

I gulped. “Uh, what do you mean by, someone just gave them to you?”

“Someone wrote me a Valentine’s Day poem but didn’t sign their name. And the poem expresses my feelings for Jenna perfectly.”

“But, um, obviously the person who gave you those words meant them for you.”

“Yeah, but like I said, she didn’t sign her name. So, obviously, she doesn’t want me to know who she is. And if she didn’t sign her name, as far as I’m concerned, that means I can do whatever I want with the poem.”

“Maybe she just forgot to sign her name,” I suggested.

He laughed. “Yeah, right. I doubt anyone would forget to sign their name on something like this. And even if she did, if she wants me to know, she’ll tell me. Otherwise this poem is for Jenna.”

I nodded, and we started working on our English assignment. I had lost all the courage I had mustered to tell Marshall the truth about the poem. Just knowing that he didn’t even think I could have been its author was enough to convince me he had no interest in me. And that made me feel foolish for having wasted so much time pouring my heart into those words.

Over the next few days, I pondered whether I should tell Marshall who really wrote that poem. Part of me said, of course I had to tell him. Maybe he didn’t seem to have any interest in me because he thought I wasn’t interested in him. Maybe if he knew I had written the poem, he would see me differently.

But on the other hand, he obviously really liked this girl named Jenna—so much so that he felt my confession of love expressed how he felt about her. That meant his feelings weren’t superficial. Maybe telling him I wrote the poem would just confuse him.

I decided to ask Marshall how things went when he gave Jenna the poem. I would make my decision on whether to tell him based on the outcome.

One day in class the next week, I asked him, “So, what happened when you gave that girl Jenna the poem?”

“Oh, man, Emma, you are not going to believe this,” he said excitedly. “After I gave it to her, she cried when she read it. She said that’s how she felt about me, only she didn’t know how to tell me. It’s crazy. We’re officially dating now, and it’s all thanks to a poem from a stranger. Can you believe it? What a story, right?”

“Right,” I said without much enthusiasm. “But did you ever figure out who gave you the poem in the first place?”

“Nope. The girl never told me. Maybe she was just doing me a favor and didn’t even know it.”

“But that means there’s someone out there—or, more likely, in here—who feels strongly enough for you to write you a poem about how she feels. Don’t you care to know who she is?”

“Believe me, Emma. If that girl really wanted me to know she wrote the poem, she would tell me.” I stared at Marshall in numb disbelief. How quickly he had forgotten just how hard it could be to tell your crush that you like them, even if you could find the words.

And so, it was decided. I wasn’t going to tell him who really wrote that poem. But when I got home that afternoon, I wrote another one. This one wasn’t going on any heart-shaped pieces of paper, nor would it ever be read by anyone but me.

Sing Me a Lullaby

Sing me a lullaby
That speaks of the fall,
That calls to mind red leaves
And yellow
And all.
Take me to autumn
And sing me to sleep.
Without these sweet balms,
Oh,
The pain is too deep.

The pain is too deep
To allow me to sleep.

I can’t fight the pain now,
Tomorrow I’ll try.
But for now I’m stuck here,
Sitting,
Wondering why.
Why did I tell him?
Why did I try?
I was just one of many.
And why did he lie?

He knew that those words
I painstakingly wrote
Did not come from him.
Did that stop him?
Oh, no.
But I let him keep them,
Claim them for his own.
Their recipient changed,
Their effect was still known.

I will say that I’ve
Learned two lessons from this.
The first is, in love,
Be the first on the list.
The second?
If you choose to share
What’s on your heart,
Be aware that your arrow may
Hit the wrong mark.

Copyright © 2021

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Last updated: February 4, 2022