He's got gym class in half an hour— He dreams that you ring his bell. But your boyfriends a dick. He carries a gun, drives an IROC, and he'd try and kick, his ass if he knew.

Though for the time being he stood in the deserted band room with you and his friends, Jeremy with his blue Bonnie mask propped up on his head, drumsticks hitting the kit he sat at. Fritz, with the Freddy mask with a bass hanging off his chest. Another with a chica mask sat closeby, occasionally throwing jabbing at Michael when he fucked up a chord. And Michael, standing with his red electric guitar, bandaged up fingers flying over the chords, his foxy mask hanging from his belt while he played a familiar tune. One you often sang along to, Listen to Iron Maiden with me, baby.

And they don't give a damn about me. You knew who he was being in the tight knit of friends, but his secret would remain locked tight behind his rough exterior.

Man I feel like mold. And why does she give a damn about me?