You don't look like him to me.
Maybe you've manifested yourself into my world.
Maybe I just wish he was you.
Who the fuck knows what I feel, anymore?
Certainly not me, that's for sure.
You, my darling boy, are my Ryan.
We had to write a poem about ourselves in English.
Mine was too depressing to hand-in.
I would surely be sent to the guidance office.
Where they would call my parents.
I'd go back to therapy.
That's where I belong, though.
I'd be happy going there.
Unlike all the other kids.
I want to be happy, I strive for it.
But these sad songs just keep playing.
Drawing me back to a place I'm all too familiar with.
Caressing my inner depression.
Teasing my insecurities.
Destroying any hope of an opening,
That I can squeeze myself free through.
I think the music is winning.
Here are two things that made me think of him while I was reading during my babysitting extravaganza:
"Sage stepped up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his for a long crushing kiss that made Brandon wonder why he was wasting any time thinking about his inner dorkdom, being upstaged by Heath Ferro, or anything other than the beautiful girl in front of him."
Mine would sound more like this:
"He leaned down an kissed her, making sure to catch her just as she sheepishly smiled looking into his brown eyes. This kiss, making her wonder why she was worried about all the other girls, why she gets flustered with him when he can't be around or anything other than the perfect, loving guy, in front of her."
He makes me feel that way with every kiss. Every single one. No complaints.
"Nothing he had ever said had felt so cruel- not even that time she wore a pink Vera Wang bubble dress to the Spring Fling and he told her that she looked like a pink frosted cupcake. He hadn't meant to be cruel then- it was just a clueless guy kind of thing to say. He'd spent the rest of the night trying to convince her that he loved cupcakes."
Mine would sound like this:
"Nothing he had ever said had felt so cruel- not even those times he'd made fun of her before. They appeared so minuscule she couldn't remember any occasions for comparison- it was just a clueless guy kind of thing to say. He'd spent the rest of the night trying to convince her that she wasn't fat, and he didn't mean it that way."
That's the kind of guy he is. Innocent, and unaware. It wouldn't have effected me if it didn't come from him, and if he didn't say something that toyed with my insecurities. He tried to make it better. I should have just let him.
I'm too fragile. I'll never make it out.