surreptitious

You're the best in the world.

You know that, and everyone around you does. Your face is the proof for God's existence, and all everyone wants to be is either you or your friend. You have perfect grades in all classes, your voice is among the best ones in choir, but you still strive to become even better, to be so good of a person that you are the absolute value, making infinity cease to exist. A person is cool when they know you, because you're the best to ever live. You know your impact on people, and you want them to bow down before you. You're the king, the "arrogant, narcissistic, superficial, materialistic son of a bitch," according to that friend of yours who refuses to look up to you. You think that's alright; one exception won't hurt you, as long as all others deem you as a God among men.

But what is life without a little irony? Everyone looking up to you except for one? No. Of course not. There has to be two people who don't give two shit about who you are. That asshole friend of yours who you don't really blame because she refuses to look up to everyone, and another one, a special one. He is beautiful, so much so that you won't ever think it's his fault he doesn't idolize you. He has eyes that bear a light blue color like that of the pacific ocean and hair that has the hue of the exquisite metal your mother wears on her rings. His skin is white, not pallid, and soft. You know because you've had the chance to touch it, and just from that, you know how precious he is. He is tall, taller than you, but it doesn't stop you from being the forceful one. He is the very definition of a golden boy, the most precious metal on Earth and you know it because you like him so much, so so much that you are willing to step over your planet-sized ego just to be with him.

But he doesn't want you.

Not as a lover. He does want you as a friend. You know he enjoys your company because who doesn't? You know it's not because you're a terrible lover, quite the opposite, actually. You know how good you are just from the previous people you were with. But him, he is different. He is the first dew on the leaves at night, the first ray of sunlight in the morning, the beautiful white wallflower that is without stain, the purest of the world, and you want to both destroy and preserve that purity. He is perfect, except for one small flaw, the one thing that prevents you and him from being together.

He is not interested in people of the same gender.

You don't blame him, because, honestly, it's just the matter of sexual orientation, or maybe it's just how he is raised to be. Whatever the reason is, you accept it, because it's him. But you know you are wrong to think that way, because of course you can't stand being defeated. You never tell him that you have feelings for him, and you don't plan to. You know this is a battle you can't win, but you always get what you want because you're the best in the world and no one can top you. You want to make him yours by any means possible. You want him splayed out in front of you because you can, you want to mark him yours even though he doesn't want to, and you want everything that is his because you're just forceful like that. Unlike that friend of yours who is so sweet and fluffy like a small lamb, you don't come with a box that says Handle with care. You're not gentle, you're rough and calloused like the interior of that asshole friend who looks much more fragile than how she actually is.

But maybe you're more fragile than you consider yourself to be, because maybe everyone is like that. No matter how tough they think they are, as humans, they all crave affection, and beneath every suit of armor is a pile of shattered glass. You think you don't care about people, you assume that you don't. Despite that, you just can't help not noticing that small change of attitude in your clueless friend. and neither can you ignore the heavy slam of the lunch tray every time that asshole friend is in one of her mood swings. You want to help them. The reason you give yourself is to make them closer to you, to that standard society deems as perfection. And you know you used to think that you are the perfection, but the most flawless can't possibly adore another being other than himself, and you know your knees are weak at the sound of his voice, at the beautiful symphony of words like an ensemble of the angels in your ears. You know you're not the perfection, he is.

You want to pity yourself so much, but it's pride that bubbles in your stomach every time he lets you touch him, and it's guilt that attacks you when you're sorry for yourself and that socially retarded asshole is struggling with her own infatuation. You know you don't care. Maybe. Because you know you also struggle with your mentality; that pride that is always lurking around inside you and that ugly side you never let anyone see. Maybe you're a psychopath, maybe you're not. Maybe you're insane, maybe you're not. You don't know anymore, because psychopaths don't feel butterflies in their stomachs when they see someone else, they don't feel anything at all. You're in love with yourself, but apparently, you still have room for him, because maybe you're just a regular human after all. You don't want to be one, because you're the best of the world, and the best can't possibly feel normal human emotions, but you do, and the thought infuriates you because that means you're not the best anymore.

Maybe that's good, because you have ceased from being the best ever since he appears in your life. You want to be mad at him for taking that position and you know you can't. Your feelings for him don't let you. People step over their egos when they feel these things, and you can't deny that you're not like one of them anymore, because you are, because humans just have to be affectionate like that despite how forceful they appear to be. You still don't tell him, because you will lose your friendship with him, the only good connection that you can establish when he doesn't approve of your sexuality (that is if it's revealed). Maybe that's all for the best, keeping emotions bundled up inside of you like a tangled roll of strings. Maybe being defeated is good, because you've lost to the right person, or the person who you assume is right.

Because you're big and proud like a grizzly bear, but your claws are paper, and you yourself know they're more fragile than anything.

And it hurts.

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