A Poem About Rejection

She is not 'sexy'. She isn't 'hot'. She isn't even beautiful. Her existence is so magnificent, and her being so majestic, that even Webster seems puzzled to find that none of his words really quite fit. That's just the first part of it. I fell for her. You would think it was because of her looks, but what did it was her words. It was as if each word spoken, each individual breath exhaled was crafted with utmost care. She knew exactly what to say to lead my trembling soul into absolute desire.

But it's not to be, unfortunately. It never will be. I keep telling myself that maybe it's me, maybe my presence isn't good enough for her. But I wouldn't know. The burning jealousy in my heart cauterizes wounds left in previous battles of emotion, but leaves my skin charred and torn, hoping for more than just the subtle touch I've been given. I feel sickness in my stomach whenever her name is spoken. Not because she sickens me, but because it sickens me to think that she's somewhere out there, most likely with someone who doesn't REALLY care, while I'm worthless to her; nothing more than a petty affair. The chairs in the theater of my mind are now filled and overflowing. No vacancy here. No rest. I am filled with consistent thoughts of her, with reminders of her and her mysterious intentions, ones she refuses to confess to me.

I can only hope that I cross her mind once, maybe twice a week. Otherwise, I think I'll lose sanity in it's entirety. Because if she never even stops to think about how I'm doing, and how life is going, then she will definitely find it pitiful knowing that her words outline the perimeter of my brain, while memories of that precious smile seep into the surrounding areas of my psyche, torturing me day after day, simply because I never know if her smile will ever be displayed again to my eyes, and not just the screen in my head.

I envy all of her schoolmates.

They pass her in the halls, often without a passing glance. They'll never understand that I would break my back if it meant that I could take their place, just so I would be able to see you again. Whether that sight be from afar. Whether it be just a passing glance. I'm not even asking for conversation, thought that be one of my greatest aspirations, I'm asking simply for your presence.

I wish I could speak to you in present-tense. I wish I could ask you what you want to eat, instead of what you had to eat. I wish I could ask what you want to do, instead of what you did today. I wish I could ask you to hold me closer, as opposed to faking interest in all of the things that others were able to experience with you. But my position has been solidified. While others are allowed to lust in the glory of your experiences, I'm forced to wait on the side so you can replay YOUR memories to me. I wish we could have memories of our own.

I guess it really isn't meant to be. It never was. But that won't stop me from condemning anyone who thinks you're any less than the most wonderful gift ever left upon this generation.