ALL iS FAiR iN LOVE AND WAR
Taylor M. Blume
When I walked into this school, about nearly a thousand hundred years ago -- I saw you seated at an table I knew I'd never fit in at. And back when my second, middle name was shy (The first one is "happy/stupid/gullible", in case you were by any chance wondering), I used to slip passed you on purpose just to hear your laughter spill into the canvas' of my lobe and you know, it brightened my day just to see you with happiness in your life. I guess stupid me changed amazingly fast and forgot mostly about the important things, like how to find the nerve to say "Hi" once in awhile when we walked side by side with one another, (you never really noticed, due to gossiping but I guess that's not bad?) Funny how the cycle represents an daily average teenage love-sick video, and even more the entertainment how I end up being the pathetic idiot that gets crushed in the end. Was it worth it? Everynight before bedtime bending and prayer making, I stare at poster walls; neon and silver with attention disorder. "Dear God. Was it really worth it?"
And in case you were wondering, you are everything to me.
Amazing how when I bumped into you just today, you smiled and said, "Hi!" but idiotic how you had to say the first words. Conversing for a minute was just fine by me; something in the History if not marked. Did you know how much I just wanted to grab your hand? But, I know how much you would've been freaking out. Shit -- you didn't even know my name. In fact, I had to repeat myself three times to the least and by now, when you're watching your sitcom television shows that I despise but can put aside, I bet you won't even remember me by tomorrow. I can't tell you what I've bottled up aside and I wrote you a few love-tipped letters that I even posted up on the internet. You won't be able to read it. You don't know my screen name, let alone my existence and I've no nerve to message you. If I even thought of being brave, our conversation would last nearly an minute or two. You'd say something amazingly believable that I'd take personally and leave me hanging, or I'd be dragged by my hair to dark locked rooms where I'll write a thousand and more letters to you.
Sometimes, I just think love is sick.
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