It's disgustingly cliché how sometimes I wish you'd notice me.

You're the one who's supposed to be looking at me; you're the gay one. Well, at least the openly gay one.

Instead I sit and wait, vying for your attention. Even if I wanted to kiss you, which I know I do, I couldn't. I'd have to wait for you to want to kiss me.

Not that you ever will.

Instead I have to make different attempts for your attention. I have to get us 'outcasts' together, just so that I'll have your full attention for five minutes.

That way, for a few minutes, your sea eyes stare at me, interested in what I'm saying. So that I have your full attention for part of the day. The highlight of my day.

But even then, she's there. It started as some way to get you to look at me, a horrible attempt to ignite envy. But you didn't even blink an eye, just wished us luck.

I hate you.

I love you.

But I still really hate you.

You leave me with her, even though I share nothing with her. I don't like her like that, never mind love her.

I try to be nice to her, she appears so fragile. She'd been so excited when I asked her to come on a date. I'd looked for some sort of jealousy, but your eyes were still pure.

So I kept up the act. I went on dates with her, kissed her directly in front of her, but nothing. You just keep on smiling.

So I started speaking to her. I complimented her, flirted with her. Yet whenever I say the three words she loves hearing, I love you, I keep picturing your face.

I tried to stop once. I tried to see her as she is, as the girl who loved me. I looked at her, touched her, kissed her, but nothing. No spark.

So then I attempted to leave her. Yet I couldn't say it outright; I didn't want to break her. I gave small insults, criticized her.

But she ran straight to you and the other female glee-clubbers. You had looked at me with such distain that I began to hate myself.

So I stayed with her for you.

That didn't change my emotions.

Every single time you crash into my chair because you're in your own world or are staring at him, I feel as if I've been struck by a lightning bolt.

Even after you leave and apologize, I can feel static electricity run over me. Chills from the adrenaline rush I get of you being that close to me.

But like I said, usually you're looking at him. I don't understand why. He's good-looking and a good singer, but that's the extent.

He's not clever, it's near impossible to hold a conversation with him. I just don't understand why he's so right for you.

I'd be there all the time. I'd talk to you, listen, you'd have my full attention forever. I'd always be there.

But I wouldn't be able to protect you. I couldn't help you when you're thrown in the dumpsters; I couldn't try to help you clean up after a slushy.

You'd never like me back because of the chair. Because of the way my body worked. I'd always be stuck in this chair.

I'd always be holding you back.

I couldn't get up and dance with you. I couldn't joke around and pick you up. I couldn't hug you. I couldn't even kiss you. Not without asking.

I'd always be a dead weight on you, because of this chair. I'd always be dragging behind you, struggling to catch up with you.

I don't want to hold you back. I want to see what you can do, what you'll be. I don't want you to always be worrying about me, even if you don't right now.

Maybe if I could walk. Maybe then, in some other life, I could actual be with you. Be your boyfriend.

But I'm can't walk and never will.

Right now I'm dorky, wheel-chair bound, sarcastic, glee fanatic Artie Abrams. You're perfect, witty, gay, angel-voiced Kurt Hummel.

I'll just have to stick to wishful thinking about us.

Filled for a glee_angst_meme prompt; 'Kurt/Artie: It's disgustingly cliché how sometimes I wish you'd notice me."