She may be ******.
And she may check my fingers-
Slam her hard metal pole down on them-
Each time we practice lacrosse.
And she may roll her eyes
At
Me.

But I don't hate her.
I feel sorry for her.
Because I think I'm the only one
Who pays attention
Through the laughter and fun
That
He touches her.

And she makes a joke out of it
So her minions snap out of their dazed state and
Chuckle a little bit.
But his crawling fingers are greedy
And her words are scarce.

All of the brain-dead minions
Laugh when she jokingly screams,
"****!"

Except me.

i dream about
that girl
that girl
who can wear that
dress
and smoke
after school

she can let her
hair down
even on the hot days
and let it fall
and dance
on the small of her back

she breaths in
the lethal fumes
that don't even touch her
her porcelain skin
too taut to let the
poisons in

she sits and lets
the sun melt on her face
as she lays on the freshly
cut grass
the boys staring
and her not caring

i sit and stare
at that girl
who sits and stares
right back at me
through the smoke
of my infinite
dreams

i sit there with
the cool wind
breezing against my face
while the summer sizzles
on my shoulders

your golden thigh
sticks to my skin
as we drive to the game
every ******* week

the boys
they sit in the back
and pack their lips
and talk **** about
the girls

the girls
who don't realize
that they're their easy targets
who skip around
in their short, tight
dresses

they talk about their waists
and the way they like to moan
every little imperfection
all avail have they shown

they think that it makes them buff
they think that it makes them cool
and i let them light their egos
and sometimes i chirp on too

but yet i sit and listen
and sometimes i think
they don't realize that i'm a girl
too

i don't know how i feel about that