Why don't you want her?
She's everything you ever wanted when you were sixteen;
her lips drawn, eyes heavy,
ready to fall into your arms
drunk, gasping for air

Kiss her, you idiot

She's so ill, so sick, so tired of boys like you
who sit and stare at her from across the room
She's not made of porcelain, though her skin may tell you otherwise
She's not made of glass
She's made of living, breathing, flesh and blood,
all soft skin and rough kisses

She wants to hear you say her name,
voice strained from the pressure of her body on yours
But you'll just sit there
Maybe buy her a drink
Maybe tell her coyly that she's 'one of the prettiest girls...'
Maybe walk her home
And watch as she dissapears through her front door,
black space forming a vignette

Why didn't you just kiss her?