I don't know if I can take anymore of it; it just keeps getting worse. The way she flirts with him. The way she's always by his side. How she lights up at the slightest thing he says. How they play fight. How I could could never blame her or him. He's perfect. He's what every girl should dream for and aspire to find in a man. In no area is he lacking, not a single flaw in mind or body. How could I blame her? How I dare I to feel anger towards her, anger, yet passion at the same time. The way she can't even imagine looking at me the way she looks at him. The long hours of the night during which my heart cries but my but my eyes are a desert; my body stiff and unresponsive-tired and numb from the last day's training session. The lack of emotion is that of a tree, not in the sense that a tree is not sentient, but in the sense that the outer part of a tree is dead while only a small portion on the inside remains alive, throbbing. Being pushed, nay, overlooked. Wanting to devote life to making hers better. Feeling ashamed in the moments when her body captivates my mind like a work of art, carved into flesh by the hand of the same who placed her before me for the shortest unit of time, each second thereof multiplied infinitely more painful when she smiles at him, infinitely more beautiful when I look upon her. I can't admire her for her body. I do. Years of lessons on equality, my own personal reasoning and fundamental understanding of life and the morality of goodness found in mind not matter descend from above me in a maelstrom formed of my own mind. And yet, even as I come to the brink, I cannot stop admiring the perfect sculpture before me. It is my nature, the nature into which I was born. I am dominated, yet unwillingly. If anything, I want nothing more than to spill out to her my fears, happiness, dreams my essence. But she could never hear me, she is deafened by the perfection she sees, that which I cannot be. Even were it that my soul could be bared, no number nor arrangement of words could ever prove sufficient to express my true feelings. Words are a prison for the heart. And if I somehow did manage this feat, already knowing fully-well it would be in vain, maybe then could I be content to be leer. Regardless of the words on this page and the emotions of my soul, I will fail. Knowing I will never have her. Knowing fully-well that as I empty the contents of my heart for her, that it will never suffice, but struggling on to do it anyways. How could I blame her? Why should she give up the perfect man? For me- so undeserving? To that point, who could even possibly deserve her? Who could deserve her laugh, her smile, her eyes, her scent, God, her scent like all the happiness and passion in the world, come into the purest possible essence of euphoria and beauty. When I look into her eyes, I feel as if I've stolen some priceless diamond, the moment feels stolen, as if I had wasted her time. Her smile, more picturesque and beautiful than could ever be recored for those who had not seen it. Her laugh, so beautiful that it is nearly an insult as to so even much as attempt to describe in mortal words. She's perfect. I'm leer.
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