If being a teenage girl couldn't be more irritating.

A poem highlighting my utmost, naive, childish rage and a crushing realisation.

• Romance
• Poetry

								
‘Tall, mysterious eyes, dark hair, prominent cheekbones.'
Google doesn’t do him justice!
'Oh, but, isn’t he so fit?’
Not my type, not my type.
‘Then, short bangs, winner smile, what a heartthrob.’
My heart must be broken then, not a single pulse.
‘He’s so dreamy and so, so popular…’
I blinked, furrowing my eyebrows as all my friends
Pointed at the same guy. He probably doesn’t know
Their name.
Swear I’ve seen him before, what’s that? 
Another Brad. Oh, boy. Where do they come from?

One by one, a minus to my group. 
Is this growing up? So much devotion just to be
Replaced by a mediocre… Oh, I’m sorry,
Adorable. Stunning. Charming. Drop dead gorgeous,
swoon worthy, absolutely perfect, ten, major fucking hottie!

Not my fucking type!

What is a type? Is it someone who you like?
Someone who is better than everyone else?
I know her, that’s my best friend. 

I suppose sometimes
When she stays overnight, in my bed
And I wake up suddenly,
I flick my warm lamp on, she’s clutching onto my arm. 
She looks so small with her bangs falling in her
Closed, peaceful eyes. Her eyelashes cast thin shadows on
Her illuminated, glowing face.
As I examine her sleeping, 
My stomach hurts, I feel like throwing up. 
And my heart.
I never felt it so fast. So strong and intense
like it would burst out of my chest and 
I’d die instantly. I’d… Drop dead. 

Picking at my fingers, I told the girls at school. I added all the pieces together,
I was like them. I could be like them. 
But there was no excited chatter, only staring. 
And then, I was left again. Alone on a colorful bench.

There’s something inside me that makes me weird and different and
I just want to rip it out. 
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