The (After) Life of the Party
One&Only
Glance in his direction and, please, advert your eyes. The only thing that comes to mind when you see him is an (mis)understanding "oh". Try to avoid him, even though that's exactly what he wants you to do. He wants to get inside your head. He wants to feed you false vibes. He wants you to believe all the lies. That way he can prove you wrong.
He'll prove you all wrong.
He'll be leaning over the railing, cigarette poised between his fingers, when you go after him. He'll be spinning tales with nicotine smoke all night long. Don't bother him, you can't wake his anxious mind on nights like this. He's too busy trying to keep his reputation to bother with you anyway. The November air is cool against your skin and your breath condenses on the window by the door that leads to the balcony. He leans further over that balcony and gazes at the city beneath him. You try to guess what he's thinking, even though you shouldn't. You really shouldn't be doing any of this. You shouldn't be staring at him. You shouldn't have followed him here. And you really shouldn't be guessing what he would taste like. Even though you're sure he would taste sweet like tobacco. It doesn't matter either way, because either way you regret not looking away when he passed you in the hall earlier that night.
You know he's gotten a hold on your head now. It's too late now.
He glances back at the glass screen door, the only thing that stands between you two. He catches your eyes for an instant. Your natural reaction is to look down, become suddenly fasinated in your laces, but you don't. There's something about his eyes, something that draws you in. He gives you a look as if to say "What are you staring at?" even though the answer is as plain as day. You're surprised when he's the first to drop the gaze. There's nothing stopping you from opening that glass door, but yourself that is. You watch as he drops his cigarette butt and grinds it into the wooden paneling of the balcony. He tosses his head to get his hair our of his eyes. He sees you. He knows you're looking at him, and you know he knows too. You sigh inwardly and it's your turn to study the ground. But his stare tugs at your scalp, just begging you to look up.
You look up even though you shouldn't have. (You're doing lots of things you shouldn't today). You caught him staring at you. You blush in spite of everything. You look down just when he pulls open the door, this act sends you tumbling into the railing. You wish he would've caught you or at least ask if you're okay, since this is his fault and all. But instead he laughs. He laughs at you. In that instant you take back all the thoughts and all the doubts that maybe the rumors weren't true. You're disgusted that you could even wonder what it would be like for him to kiss you. You glare at him and his laughter stops. He looks at you trying to be all innocent, but all you can think of is the rumors. There's an endless list of them, all supporting his ugly reputation. There's the one that says he's a pill popper and keeps his stash in the locker room. There's another one that says he goes through girls like nothing. Then, and here's a real tear jerker, the one that says he tried to jump off of a hotel roof. Poor, poor Petey, trying to kill himself. Like he shouldn't have enough reasons to hate himself already. You make a disgusted sound in the back of your throat and go to leave, not only the balcony, but the party altogether. But he grabs you by the wrist and you start to wonder what, exactly, he is capable of. His hands slide up your arms and rest on your shoulders, this sends a shiver down your spine. And then he says the most surprising thing,
"You have pretty eyes"
Your speachless, absolutly speachless. You wonder if this is the same way he picks up all the girls. You can feel his breath on your neck. He smells like cigarettes and lies. His nails dig into your upper arm and his eyes are dark. His stare is intense and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. In an instant, he's leaning over the railing and you're breathless. He runs his hands through his hair like he doesn't know what came over him. Maybe he doesn't.
So what if he is a pill popper or jumps off hotel roofs? You go home with him anyway.
He'll prove you all wrong.
He'll be leaning over the railing, cigarette poised between his fingers, when you go after him. He'll be spinning tales with nicotine smoke all night long. Don't bother him, you can't wake his anxious mind on nights like this. He's too busy trying to keep his reputation to bother with you anyway. The November air is cool against your skin and your breath condenses on the window by the door that leads to the balcony. He leans further over that balcony and gazes at the city beneath him. You try to guess what he's thinking, even though you shouldn't. You really shouldn't be doing any of this. You shouldn't be staring at him. You shouldn't have followed him here. And you really shouldn't be guessing what he would taste like. Even though you're sure he would taste sweet like tobacco. It doesn't matter either way, because either way you regret not looking away when he passed you in the hall earlier that night.
You know he's gotten a hold on your head now. It's too late now.
He glances back at the glass screen door, the only thing that stands between you two. He catches your eyes for an instant. Your natural reaction is to look down, become suddenly fasinated in your laces, but you don't. There's something about his eyes, something that draws you in. He gives you a look as if to say "What are you staring at?" even though the answer is as plain as day. You're surprised when he's the first to drop the gaze. There's nothing stopping you from opening that glass door, but yourself that is. You watch as he drops his cigarette butt and grinds it into the wooden paneling of the balcony. He tosses his head to get his hair our of his eyes. He sees you. He knows you're looking at him, and you know he knows too. You sigh inwardly and it's your turn to study the ground. But his stare tugs at your scalp, just begging you to look up.
You look up even though you shouldn't have. (You're doing lots of things you shouldn't today). You caught him staring at you. You blush in spite of everything. You look down just when he pulls open the door, this act sends you tumbling into the railing. You wish he would've caught you or at least ask if you're okay, since this is his fault and all. But instead he laughs. He laughs at you. In that instant you take back all the thoughts and all the doubts that maybe the rumors weren't true. You're disgusted that you could even wonder what it would be like for him to kiss you. You glare at him and his laughter stops. He looks at you trying to be all innocent, but all you can think of is the rumors. There's an endless list of them, all supporting his ugly reputation. There's the one that says he's a pill popper and keeps his stash in the locker room. There's another one that says he goes through girls like nothing. Then, and here's a real tear jerker, the one that says he tried to jump off of a hotel roof. Poor, poor Petey, trying to kill himself. Like he shouldn't have enough reasons to hate himself already. You make a disgusted sound in the back of your throat and go to leave, not only the balcony, but the party altogether. But he grabs you by the wrist and you start to wonder what, exactly, he is capable of. His hands slide up your arms and rest on your shoulders, this sends a shiver down your spine. And then he says the most surprising thing,
"You have pretty eyes"
Your speachless, absolutly speachless. You wonder if this is the same way he picks up all the girls. You can feel his breath on your neck. He smells like cigarettes and lies. His nails dig into your upper arm and his eyes are dark. His stare is intense and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. In an instant, he's leaning over the railing and you're breathless. He runs his hands through his hair like he doesn't know what came over him. Maybe he doesn't.
So what if he is a pill popper or jumps off hotel roofs? You go home with him anyway.