Be the grumpy teenager digging through your locker because your second best friend told you someone slipped a note in there.

You are Karkat Vantas and damn, how did your locker get so freaking dirty? You swear you have cleaned it out recently.

Soon you stumble on a neatly folded, slightly crumpled piece of lined paper on top of your history book. This wasn't here yesterday. It must be the note.

You unfold it, being careful not to tear it- it seems like pretty worn wood pulp. The blue lines have faded and have water stains interrupting their uniform pattern. The pencil the thing is written in is weak, probably some cheap mechanical, but still eligible other than the cursive-on-drugs handwriting.

Roses are red

Violets are

Not blue

They're violet

That's why they're called fuckin violets

Anyway

I can't help feelin warm for you, bro

But not like

In a weird way

I can't think of somethin that rhymes

Okay.

What in the name of holy bags of horse shit to the face did you just read? It sounds like someone just tried to write you a love poem but suffered a severe case of cranial hemorrhaging beforehand. If this was the method they were trying to use to woo you they were causing the opposite effect. Besides, you already had your eyes on someone else anyway- a pretty bad crush, if you may say so yourself- and it would take a LOT more than this cheesy bullshit to change your feelings.

The bell rings and you shove the paper down in your pocket, picking up your english textbook and slinging your backpack over one shoulder. You slam your locker shut, enjoying the satisfying metal clang, and twist the lock dial to a random number to fully close it. You head down the halls to room E-17 and sit down in the usual spot, waiting for the subject of your affections to plop down into the conjoined chair-desk beside you.

Speak of the devil, there he is. You hear him slink down in the dark blue, textured, plastic chair and let his backpack fall to the dusty linoleum floor.

"'Sup Karbro," he says gleefully, running his hand through your hair. Your face flushes red and you quickly smack his hand away, almost losing your grip on the smooth, wooden-bead bracelets on his wrists.

"Ugh, stop it, you grub-fucking stoner asshole. People are going to think we're together," you spit out, looking to the side. You honestly wouldn't care what people would say if you were his boyfriend. You'd have him and you'd be happy with that. But, being you, you were never going to admit that.

He gives you a strange look for a second, his mouth slightly open as if he was going to say something. He just shakes his head lightly and blows air out through inflated cheeks, letting his usual smile spread over his facepaint.

You get halfway through the class and are watching a video when he leans over to you and starts to chat.

"So bro, you got a motherfuckin' crush on any motherfucker?" he asks casually, staring at the projection on the whiteboard. You furrow your brows.

"No. Everyone at this piece of shit school is either taken or a complete douche," you reply.

He laughs. "Well I sure as hell don't think so. I up and got wicked reds for someone." he starts chewing on the end of his pencil, which has long since had the eraser gnawed away as well as the thin, weak metal.

You wonder for a second if you should ask, but since you aren't talking, he shouldn't have to. He already has credit for saying he does like someone.

You want to get your mind off of it, though, because now your teacher is yelling at you and if you don't think of something else your curiosity will get the better of you and you'll end up crying over finding out that Gamzee doesn't have a crush on you, which is inevitable anyways.

There's only one thing that you can do. Think about that stupid excuse for romantic poetry you have in your pocket.

Maybe you'll get another one tomorrow.