Love Letters from a Teenage Manic Depressive

Sometimes I stare.  But I just can’t help myself from looking at the back of that pretty head.  And those slender arms that come to a gentle rest in front of her, dainty fingers drumming away at an invisible tune of a popular song I’ve never heard of.  She’s perfect.  Her brown hair, her turquoise shirt with all the jewelry, and jeans.  I don’t know anything about her, but she’s perfect.

It’s just this feeling I’ve got.  An instinctual calling of fate that tells me “this one”.  I can tell because my hands get sweaty.  I can tell because when she looks towards me, I get hyper-aware.  I start to feel my taste buds slide against the inside of my mouth and I can taste my early-morning saliva and lead-ridden drinking fountain water.  I have to remind myself to blink every 15 seconds or so.  I realize my foot has been tapping, and when I stop it, that potential energy builds up my anxiety.  And all this happens with her quickly turning her head to the side to adjust her hair over her shoulder.  When I pass her in the hallway, I realize the patter and rhythm to my walking until I start walking with a hobble.  My lips feel uncomfortable just sitting there and I move them around until they’re fixed into some sly smile.  But I always make sure not to show teeth- they’re not white enough.   Maybe there’s something in them.

And as much as I hear “this one” ringing through my head on repeat for hours and hours, I can’t make myself do anything.  If she was interested, I’d know, right?  But why would she?  I can smell my 3-day unwashed jeans when I sit down.  Sometimes when she sits down, I get the faint whiff of name brand dryer sheets and mall-grade perfume.  She’s perfect.  But my shirt has a hole in the collar and I could probably use a haircut.  Maybe after some new clothes and grooming I can maybe say ‘hi’.

I like to wonder what would happen if I just collapsed in the middle of everything.  Who would rush over?  Who would run away?  Who would just watch?  Who would care?  I think about this scenario constantly in many different places, with many different people, but I can’t stop myself from always picturing her to run over first and be upset.  Really, really upset.  Her eyes filled with tears, holding my lifeless body and sobbing.  It’s perfect.

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