Thirteen poems is a lot to write about one person, and the speaker knows it. "That's definitely way too much," they admit, with the nervous humor of someone trying to laugh at themselves before anyone else can. Dalilahshigaraki's piece is a crush confession that starts as a joke and slowly stops being one. It begins by hiding behind a stack of unshared poems and ends with the plainest question a teenager can ask: "Can you and I go out?"
The central idea is the distance between feeling something and being able to say it, and the poem's quiet suggestion that writing is how that distance gets crossed. The title asks, "Why Can't I Just Share With You?" The first stanza gives a funny, honest answer: "Good thing you terrify me, / Or I'd let you read them all during lunch." Fear works as a brake on embarrassment, the only thing between the speaker and total exposure. Terror and affection turn out to be one feeling seen from two sides. The mention of lunch, and later of "the past 2 grades," suggests a school setting, though that is an inference from the text.
What makes the construction clever is that the poem catches itself being written. "Is this number 14?" the speaker wonders mid-stanza. Since the title promises fourteen poems and the opening line admits to thirteen, the poem we are reading is the fourteenth, the first one addressed to its subject rather than stashed away. It answers its own title by existing. The speaker even uses it as evidence: "This is how I know / With you I have a thing." That "thing" is a wonderfully evasive word. The title says "love," but the speaker can only point at something vague and big.
The form matches this nervousness. The poem is free verse in stanzas of four, four, seven and four lines, so the third stanza spills past the others just as the speaker's feelings do. There is a faint near-rhyme in "much" and "lunch," but the pattern disappears almost at once, as if the speaker loses control of tidiness. The lines are short and conversational, and "Hey" appears twice, pulling the reader into the position of the person being spoken to.
That longest stanza is the emotional center. "If I thought I was in love / With anybody the past 2 grades, / This is my wake-up slap" cancels every earlier crush in a single conditional sentence. The word "slap" makes realization feel sudden and physical. Then comes the lurch into "Hey, can you never go away?", a request that is both tender and absurdly unreasonable. The speaker answers their own next question, "Has anyone told you you're cool? / No, I bet they don't," and the compliment turns into a claim: "Cause I'm the only one who sees you." The beloved is special and overlooked at once, and the speaker's attention is the one thing offered as proof.
The final stanza gives that claim a sadder edge. "It's a shame I'm all alone / But at least I have you to myself." Admiration and loneliness sit in the same breath, and the privacy of the crush is both a comfort and a trap. That is what makes the closing question risky. Asking means giving up the secret, the poems and the safe "to myself." The beloved's name, "Park," appears only here, after a whole poem of "you," so naming the person feels like stepping out from behind a door. "One final question" fits a speaker who counts poems, grades and numbers, as though feeling could be managed with arithmetic.
The poem is worth reading for its lack of polish. It has no grand metaphors, only casual speech, a joke used as armor, and a small act of nerve. It shows that a love poem can be less about the beloved's beauty than about the speaker's courage to stop counting and ask.