Now you suck.

He wanted to be him. He wanted to be him so bad. Him who you loved so much, him who even got to lay hands on you, even if he didn't even take you up on a dance, he didn't even make you cry, he didn't even make you-...And you would still love him, still want him, still get with him,where he would just stand and watch until you two went away to a more private place. And someone caught you two on the 'job'. He found one of the pictures.

You don't know how long I could stare into your picture, and wish that it was me.

He even tried moving on. He even tried the other girls. They asked him why he wasn't enjoying it as much as they were enjoying it. And he told them.

You're wasting your tongue with lame excuses and lies.

He dreamt about you, he dreamt about standing in your doorstep. Licking sweat off of your forehead, with your finger in his mouth, and the sounds when leather jackets hit the ground. You should've heard when you're not around.

So be careful who you screw.

And never call.

...But I'm starting to suspect, you don't intend to do anything you say at all.

And you didn't. The prom came. But he just sat by the garden in front of the ball salloon. He didn't have the guts to walk inside, no. He would never be able to bear the sight of you in your dress, dancing with him, even if it was just you who insisted to, even when his eyes were on other girls, when his mind was just on how he would have your body again by the end of the prom.

All by himself, sitting alone.

No, no no. He couldn't handle it any longer. He dashed inside, looking for you, muttering to himself.

"Where are you, {{user}}..."