To Collocate The Stars

four

Alexithymia

There are a few reasons why liking you fucking blows.
The most noteworthy being the fact that I don't want to.
Every fiber in my being, every neuron in my brain, every beat of my heart, and blink of my eyes wants to keep you well inside the friend-zone; to lock you in and wrap the key and a breeze-block in one hundred layers of duct tape and launch you into the deepest part of the entire seven seas.
Yet, every time you're near me, my tummy does a sickening flip-flop and my face gets all hot.
I giggle like a dumbass, hide my face in my blond hair that's more frizz then curls, and I can't help but be nervous.
And to be quite frank, I'm a little pissed.
For one, you're 125% not reciprocating my feelings.
And the fact that it's been five years. Five fucking years since I started having feelings for you, and I was about done with them five fucking years ago.
You have this thing about you, maybe it's your perfect smile, or the laugh you get when something's truly funny, or it could quite possibly be your electric personality, but it makes me want to knock your lights out.
I hate you, your perfect smile, your adorable laugh, your gorgeous face, your radioactive presence, all of you.
But, I must admit, out of everyone's face in a crowd, I'd look for yours first.
It's not often that I don't find myself glancing at you; hoping you'll look up, hoping you won't.
It's killing me from the inside out, like a star imploding.
Like a mega-watt super-nova.
Please make the warm fuzzies stop.
Not only do they cause me physical pain, but they make me both high and depressed, both stressed and at peace, both angry and optimistic.
For the love of God, just stop being so goddamned perfect.
You're brighter than the fucking sun, asshole.