From a Distance (as always)

Look at yourself in the mirror. Look at that head. That freakish, abnormally sized bust that struggles to sit restlessly on your shoulders as you constantly face downward. If there’s any advantage to that thing you try to tame is that it holds an endless mosaic of thoughts that let you ponder and help you reason in times of awkward peril. 
Now look at her. From a distance (as always) as you restrain the temptation to call her name, she may cower.
Your eyes wander constantly towards her vicinity, like an invisible ray of magnetic lust fucking you towards her. The perverted bastard you’ve been since the Bush years you can't cease the temptation to admire the beauty she truly is.
You're beautiful.
But she wants to be beaten.
Father never taught you how to beat a woman, so you let the rays die away in the halls, jolting to gaze elsewhere when strangers catch on.
This is the extent of your fantasy. Some think it's funny because they notice only eyes as huge as yours can be  others list you in the daily lunch grime of children to stay away from. What difference does that make anyway, you’re used to this. Not to mention you claim on countless occasions that you could care less and nihilism is your middle name (with other rationales) of bullshit intended to keep them further away.
We all know they’re idiots, but must you really mention every fucking moment of the day?
Now you spend all this time thinking how to brew conversation, exchanging smiles and possibly even numbers...anything to promise the pursuit of intimacy.
This is what you want. Her.
You desire her in the ways she romances herself for they balance how you restrict yours. Why do you remain silent and sedated? She’s been passing through the halls, making nice glances so now you get that feeling you try so hard to resist
(that feeling that you might just want to embrace. But you well know where this feeling gets you, fuckboy.
It gets you out of your house but away from your friends and into the world of devotion that makes you a diluted zombie living off the faith for his woman. It won’t at first come across like this after the exchange of laughs, familiar names and places, and inner thoughts; then a measly kiss or two will seal your heart and spawn some sort of connection. If she accepts the trial of staying with you and not going down the usual assembly line of hookups until pregnancy, you’re convinced this was meant to be.

You’ll remain on your knees while other men stampede behind your back and win her with their quicker wits as she assures you’re her only one. The decay of other men’s breath and the stench of their putrid fucking seed won’t be visible by the time she locks her lips on yours the morning after. The evening before you were wondering where she is and what she’s doing, always secure with that welcoming kiss that yes, she really is yours. Hard to believe you could have a girl this beautiful, ain’t it?
After all, you are the soul-sucking downer who drives everyone to hell with his constant bitching of the youth today and how it’s not the same as it used to be and how we’re all getting stupider and stupider…
But somehow she can look past it all. What could it be that draws her in? Maybe you really are different, maybe you really have grown into a handsome young man, and maybe the world you threaten to leave in a shelved thought once a week isn’t that bad after all; maybe even as beautiful as her.

But that’s when she tells you that there really was nothing; we are simply young and stupid. There are good amounts of folk who can (and will) do better jobs at loving than your awkward façade you consider passion. She’s been kissing you with the aftertaste of others (many others) and even some you’ve exchanged smiles, glances, and even friendships with. Trying to remain cool and collective, you won’t show a single emotion. Because doesn’t that mean they’ve won? You really are letting the pressure of bullshit teen life get under your poorly maintained skin.
Meanwhile, the demons you try so hard not to let overtake return with the realization that you couldn’t even make a girl feel loved in your prime. What good are you, anyway?

Her life will go on and she’ll love and scar many more, most probably of higher statures then yours and they’ll never know of the legacy and romance you thought you could hold. You’re just another face to her now the same way she is to you, and no one wants to say a single fucking thing. And if you even dare gaze at her again in the hall, she’ll look down before you’re in sight. That’s the way things work here.
And the noon bell rings.

Now cry, you little bitch. Cry like you did when you were sent away by one woman who should’ve been there for you (which you fucked up yourself as usual) when no one else was.
You know who I’m talking about, don’t even…
But you will. You’ll always trace your little inferior struggles with adolescence on the woman who brought you here. Eventually, she’ll grow tired of having you stay in that piss-smelling basement of a home and throw you out where you belong.
The time’s coming up, boy, time to be a man. So don’t let this potential sweet gal become your lady and fuck everything up while you’re still picking up the pieces.

Of course, you’re still staring at her. From a distance, as always for no idea of chemistry could come to mind on how to relate and ease her in. Do you really think she’d want you anyway? After all you’ve done in and around the school to people she probably doesn’t even know but definitely will once the herd catches on that you and her are talking. The most pleasant thing both of you can do for each other is smile, and hope to remain strangers with invulnerable young hearts.