"Creep."
I like that word.
Thank you for calling me it.
So what's creepy about me, I ask? - Is it the way I stare in admiration?
Is it how I look?
My mask; my grotesque, cracking, vunerable mask?
Is it my sexuality; can't take a bit of both teams?
Am I too vague?
Am I too strange?
Am I too ugly?
Aren't I pretty enough for you?
Probably not, I'm flat-chested and my hair is a mess but that's low-self esteem on display for you boy; I'm too ugly to even attempt to look good, no wonder I don't straighten my hair or do anything with myself.
I like all of weird music, to you I guess, I like rap too - don't you?
I never asked you to like me back, stupid. Just to smile and let it pass, to let me get over it my own way.
He did, the one before you I mean. I forgot about him now; he knew, he found out, he just smiled and nodded acting as if it was never said.
Why couldn't you take it like that?
I'll just sit at my desk, looking up every so often at you and just burrow my new found hatred into another bottle to explode another day.
I liked you, you jerk.
I wouldn't want anything more than that privellege to do it in peace.
I'm a creep?
Well, so are you.