Not Mine and Not Yours.

Blackened Hands and Stained Papers

You lose interest in the appealing look of black shades against pale skin and thin-pressed, chapped lips.

 

You stop thinking about the drawls and the snorts and the annoying little habits until you start thinking about it again.

 

You’ve taken to scribbling down your thoughts on scraps of papers; corners of your homework, sometimes scrap paper in the back of your binder. You always make sure to promptly get rid of any evidence, of course. But, you write. You write about how he’s really just a teenager who can’t even properly use gel, you jot down your memories of the time he used the wrong hairspray and his hair was wacky for the entire day much to your amusement.

 

You write until your hand hurts and your homework paper is ruined because you’ve written over the assignment. You write until the entire page is covered in black ink and there are smudges on your palms. You write until you have to switch hands, and you only stop when you realize how utterly pointless this is.

 

You’ve written on and on about him, all recollecting the bumped noses, flushed faces and loud laughs late into the night. Your hands are shaking from how verociously you had been gripping your pen, and when Dave walks up to you you smile at him, crumple the paper up, ask him how his day was, throw your feelings in the garbage, and carry on.

Your name is John Egbert, and despite these thoughts and last couple of weeks, you’re still smitten and you hate yourself for it.