I study her the way I think you’d see her.
The curvature of her plump lips, the way her eyes hold mystery unlike the mirror in my eyes, the way her collarbones jut out oh-so elegantly; it’s the way her hips fill in and concave in all the right places in the areas where the flabs of my stomach protrude; it’s the way her naturally jet black hair is silky and wavy, unlike the raven dye that has faded from the ends of my tips, leaving a nasty brownish-orange color in its place.
I think about how your pupils might slightly dilate at the scene of her long, slender legs. I look down at mine and wonder if the extra fat might cushion the tumbling of my mental health.
I imagine your thumb hovering over the like button but stopping yourself just in time.
I imagine you ogling over another girl’s shiny blonde hair and wide blue eyes. My hair resembles Hagrid’s at best, and my eyes are covered by the hoods of my eyelids.
She might make you laugh, and you might even wonder what life would be like to be with her — just for a split second though, because I might go nuts since I’m crazy, right? At least that’s probably how the world sees me.
She probably wakes up with ease and even a smile. I need to pop 3 happy pills every morning to be a somewhat functioning member of society.
