Them.

Them and their perfect little smiles

and twisted little words.

Words that crawl throughout your spirit, draining it slowly.

Them and their shimmering blond hair and tiny eyes waist.

I love her.

But I don’t like her.

Every connection she attempts to make is false and condescending.

But the anger she feels when I am pushed on the court is real,

So is her allure.

I realize I’m not drawn to her because of her popularity,

but rather because of the fun I’ve had with her,

And the pity I feel for her.

As a person, she contradicts herself

Managing a perfect balance of sincere and insincere.

I am constantly waiting for her to be honest, and am never surprised when I don’t receive it.

Yet here I am,

Always available for her, and always eager to see her.

Why is she always there?

Nagging on my mind every hour?

Does she know?

How often I’ve dreamed of dragging her off her pedestal?