Karina Itzel

I love you’s sit on the tip of my tongue like

boiling water ready to spill over, like

barely contained preschoolers waiting for recess, like

balloons big enough to burst.

I want to say it to the man at the gas station restroom line that

lets me cut in front of him when it’s clear I can

hardly hold it in, and whisper it

across time and space to whoever invented

grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.

I want to say it to the extra nice dental hygienist who’s there

the first time I get my braces, and

to the crossing guard that helps my sister get to school.

I want to yell it 

through the window at the McDonald’s cashier that gives me

extra buffalo sauce without me asking, and to the

little girl in the Ross dressing room that says my dress looks pretty.

I want to.

But instead, I do like the penguins of Madagascar and wonder

at how often love hides behind things like tight-lipped smiles and waves,

at how many different kinds of love there are and ways to say it, like how

my mother seasons every enchilada with it and

my brother squeezes it into every post-volleyball game hug, and I think that

maybe

even when we’re not brave enough to say it,

we still find a way to show it.

And maybe,

even if we can’t explain it,

we still try our best to grow it.