I hate nearly everything about you.
That stupid dimple next to that stupidly gorgeous smile.
Your repulsively silky jet black hair that feels so horribly wonderful between my fingers.
From your obnoxiously beautiful deep complexion to your sickeningly dainty hands, I can't stand any of it.

I hate the way our bodies fit so perfectly together.
That feeling of eternal happiness and comfort when I see you is absolutely revolting.
The way you smell so terribly excellent makes me cringe.
Why do my hands always seem to search for yours, in some grotesque display of love?

But, even though I hate all of these annoyingly beautiful things about you,
The fact that I don't know what you think of me is what I hate the most.

Another poet wrote a poem today,
and it was riveting.
Each word, an intricately carved figure into an ornate pattern.
Every syllable, singing the beloved song I never thought I'd hear again.

My soul transcribed onto paper.
I could feel my heart taking flight with each rhyme,
soaring by the end of the poem.

Of course, myself being a fellow poet,
these thoughts remained in their place of origin, though unwillingly.
How could I, a fellow poet, succumb to his talent?

Did he recognize that glimmer in my eyes,
the sparkle of childlike admiration?

Or, upon looking into my eyes, could he see fire,
the burning heat of my jealousy?

I loathed him; how was it that he was so moved with talent,
and I, a piteous poet who failed to move so much as a single soul?

He took to poetry as a bird takes to the sky,
so beautiful as to leave my stomach in knots
and my head reeling.

The strangest sensation came over me,
when I read the other poet's work.
A sensation of simultaneous beauty and disgust,
a deep longing and loving, intertwined with
the greatest disdain.

I handed back the paper,
conflicted by my own inner turmoil.
These darkest of feelings remained where they first lie,
never to be known by another poet.

I'm so proud of you,
she said to herself.

A mother and father
laughed in the distance,
embracing a young woman.

School books laid all around her,
but the only friendly face in sight
was her own.

The happy family entered the house,
raving about a show they saw that night.
We're so proud of you,* cooed the mother.
The father beamed with pride.

She crept down the stairs,
and met the happy family
in the kitchen.

The family stared back at her,
as if she did not belong.

Tests and papers with high marks lined
every cabinet, the table, and the refrigerator.
Theater medals and trophies had a glass showcase of their own.

She sighed heavily and went back to her room,
littered with thick books and journals.

I'm so proud of you,
she said to herself,
because no one else would.

The scent of cigarette smoke
and laundry detergent
enters my nose once more.

It reminds me of the times
when you and I
were better.

The way our hands intertwined
for those glorious moments of harmonious nothing,
then we whispered sweet goodbyes, until our next meeting.

It reminds me of the days
when you wanted to
sit next to me.

When we didn't have to do anything,
except exist.
And we were perfectly happy.

I don't smell it much any more,
that cigarette smoke and laundry detergent.
I miss it.

You and I met not too long ago.
Though our hands never touched,
I could smell the cigarette smoke and laundry detergent.

I change my outfit at least four times before I hang out with you.

Every time you say "shut up" and I say "make me" I want you to kiss me.
The reverse also applies.

Most of my poems are about you.
So are most of my thoughts.
That's not creepy.
A little bit creepy.

I have liked you for as long as I've known you.
I will always like you.
No, I will always love you.
So, yes, I love you.

It's not your fault.
I'm a lot better, and it won't happen again.
Don't look past me because you think it will happen again.

I wish you were out and proud.
Maybe someday, but I wish it were sooner than later.

You give me that feeling of butterflies.
In my heart, not my stomach.
It's so much lovelier in the heart.

I might try to seem cool, but I get really nervous and awkward around you.
Which *****, because I want to be cool around you.
It's to impress you, but it fails because I'm too awkward.

I am really grateful to have met you.
Fairly certain we're destined to be, you and I.

Whenever we can't think of something to do, I want to suggest kissing.
Maybe I will soon.
Doubtful, but maybe.

You smell amazing.
A smell of like, I don't even know.
It's my favourite smell.

Your opinion is incredibly important to me.
And you know how little I care about people's opinions.

I want you to be happy.
Even if that isn't with me, then so be it.

I smile like an idiot when you're with me.
(Sorry for looking like an idiot when you're with me.)

You make me feel right.
I like that feeling.

I'm sorry.