The Right Kind of Wrong
I hate doing this. I hate demolishing my future, my studies and risking my friendships just for him. I hate it. But I can't help it at all. Last week we met, we met in the back of the library and kissed until he had me on the table and accidentally shoved over various books. And it was only when we heard Madame Pince's upcoming footsteps that we stopped, and his leg was already caught in between the legs of my robes. Whatever I do, I am never giving him my innocence. No matter what he does, I'll never go over the edge.
He's just a game that I play. And I will win. I'll hurt him like he's hurt me, I'll hurt him like he's hurt my friends. I want to make him cry for me, I want him to want me like he's never wanted someone before. And when he needs me, when he needs me like the bittersweet taste of alcohol dissolving in his mouth, I'll cut off his supply.
Oh, how I loathe him. That quirky smirk of his, the way he always used and still teases me, judges me by my blood, does anything to spread the word that I am not worthy.
Oh, how I loathe him. How cunning he is, and what a great figure he has - wait, that's not the point. The point is, no matter what length of his features are beatific, it doesn't necessarily mean that I am attracted to him.
Not at all. No, never. I could never be attracted to him. It's perfectly excusable for a girl my age with growing hormones to watch her enemy's backside when he walks. Perfectly natural.
Really.
It's natural to envision his lips pressed against mine whenever he gazes at me and I can feel his eyes penetrating over my body.
He's just a game.
It's natural that I feel tingling sensations and imagine him against me and doing things more than kissing. It's natural to feel my heart pound and burn whenever he comes into a room and smirks at me or when he slicks back a strand of silver-blonde from his hair.
It's natural.
I am not attracted to him at all.
Well...maybe just a little.