You Belong With Me
he's so popular, i'm just awkward
You told me you weren’t dating him, and in that instant, it felt like things had shifted back to the way they were before. Before her, before him. Maybe the present would be our time. Lord knows that time never seemed to be on our side.
And it still wasn’t.
I’m sunken into the couch at the edge of the lobby, a magazine masking my face as you saunter by on his arm. You said you weren’t dating, but the way you cling to his arm says otherwise.
Actions speak louder than words, or at least that’s what I’ve always heard.
I would be lying if I said that you don’t look beautiful. Stunning, like the movie star that you’ve become. Hair curled into perfect ringlets, the right amount of makeup piled on to conceal your freckles, brown eyes clouded by a smog of thick black eyeliner and plum-colored eyeshadow. A purple dress seems to hug your body, sparkles on the hem catching the light as you walk.
All I can think about is how one night, up on the roof of our apartment complex, you told me that the only color you really hated was purple.
But whether you like the shade or not, it looks perfect on you, the perfect contrast to your fair skin. And you look great on his muscular arm, cloaked in moss green cashmere, his head the perfect distance above yours. In all of his superficial perfection, I couldn’t help but think that you’d look even more gorgeous if it were my arm you hung onto. Maybe that spark in your eyes would return.
You’re just his life-sized Barbie doll, made to look exactly how he wants you to look. How they want you to look, who they want you to date. I want more than anything to just sprint across this room as fast as my chicken legs will carry me, grip your shoulders and shake you. Make you wake up and live your own life again.
Even if that life doesn’t include me.
I’d tell you that I love you if I could only find the right words and force them off of my tongue. I’m the type of boy that’s always stumbled through life with a loss for words.
Three words just aren’t enough.
I watch you stroll through the door that he holds open for you, and I feel like I’m seven years old again, standing on the shoreline with a fistful of sand pressed against my palms. No matter how hard I clench my fingers together, the grains still slip through.
Nine years later, that sand is replaced with a mess of brunette waves, but you’re still slipping through my fingers just the same.
And it still wasn’t.
I’m sunken into the couch at the edge of the lobby, a magazine masking my face as you saunter by on his arm. You said you weren’t dating, but the way you cling to his arm says otherwise.
Actions speak louder than words, or at least that’s what I’ve always heard.
I would be lying if I said that you don’t look beautiful. Stunning, like the movie star that you’ve become. Hair curled into perfect ringlets, the right amount of makeup piled on to conceal your freckles, brown eyes clouded by a smog of thick black eyeliner and plum-colored eyeshadow. A purple dress seems to hug your body, sparkles on the hem catching the light as you walk.
All I can think about is how one night, up on the roof of our apartment complex, you told me that the only color you really hated was purple.
But whether you like the shade or not, it looks perfect on you, the perfect contrast to your fair skin. And you look great on his muscular arm, cloaked in moss green cashmere, his head the perfect distance above yours. In all of his superficial perfection, I couldn’t help but think that you’d look even more gorgeous if it were my arm you hung onto. Maybe that spark in your eyes would return.
You’re just his life-sized Barbie doll, made to look exactly how he wants you to look. How they want you to look, who they want you to date. I want more than anything to just sprint across this room as fast as my chicken legs will carry me, grip your shoulders and shake you. Make you wake up and live your own life again.
Even if that life doesn’t include me.
I’d tell you that I love you if I could only find the right words and force them off of my tongue. I’m the type of boy that’s always stumbled through life with a loss for words.
Three words just aren’t enough.
I watch you stroll through the door that he holds open for you, and I feel like I’m seven years old again, standing on the shoreline with a fistful of sand pressed against my palms. No matter how hard I clench my fingers together, the grains still slip through.
Nine years later, that sand is replaced with a mess of brunette waves, but you’re still slipping through my fingers just the same.