Flowergirl

✿✽❀~ twelve ~❀✽✿

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What's his name?

Is his jaw sharp and clean, without all the chub? Can he actually grow stubble on his chin and not just a sad excuse of it?

Is he tall? Well at least is he up to six feet, since that's the height at which one starts being attractive?

Is his name something clever, something interesting from a classic or a tragedy?

Are his eyes brown like the earth not a boring green, the colour of dying grass?

Are his teeth straight? Did he ever wear braces to get them that way?

Is his skin dark enough that his veins won't show through in the wrong lighting? Is his skin dark enough that it'll glow like a shy flame in the right lighting? Is it? Is it?

~

Comparison breeds discontent.

No three words had ever been truer in my life. Comparison breeds discontent.

I myself had learnt that it goes farther than that though. Comparison breeds discontent, and discontent breeds self-hatred. And although self-hatred and I weren't exactly strangers, it had been a long while since she and I were this well acquainted.

These questions that would run through my mind began to consume everything I did in my day to day life. I was no longer Miles Lee, I was just a boy. The ghost of Miles Lee was watching some boy breathing in his body and living his life. The boy would go through his day, the ever-consuming questions about Him taking over the boy's mind, controlling his actions.

No, this boy was no longer Miles Lee, the (occasionally) funny, quirky bloke who had some semblance of independence. The boy was just a boy whose foremost purpose was to wonder. To wonder if he was as good as Him. As good as the lad had won the only heart that had ever mattered.

The boy would brush his teeth and wonder whether His teeth ever got this yellow. He would step out of the shower and look in the mirror at his utterly naked body. Naked in every sense of the word. He wasn't bad looking in grand scheme of things, not at all, but he would wonder if His body was taller, tanner, buffer, if He had to worry about eating too much and slipping back into a vicious cycle of self-loathing and gluttony. Most likely not.

I, Miles Lee, both was and wasn't the boy, and He was the man.

And God how I wanted to be the man.

I wanted to know his name. A name can tell a lot about a person and I had always believed that to some extent, our names shaped the people we turned out to be. Had I been born a Dylan or a Brett, I don't think that I would have become the boy that spent his weekends playing Pokémon and trading cards on the internet with people he didn't know. I wouldn't have been the boy who didn't know where he stood, who didn't know if he'd get invited to this weekend's rage, I would have been the one hosting the rage. Because Miles was the confused boy, the unsure one, not Dylan, and definitely not Brett.

I really hoped that His name was something boring, more boring than Miles Lee at least (although unless his name was Jim Jim, I didn't see how that could be possible). God, what was his name?