sarcasm seeps through me
believe me when I say I hate his smile
But in the midst of commotion whereas I sit, tracing imaginary patterns on my denim jeans, I hear his voice—scarred and husky—saying that he wants to discover something to call his own.
And I shiver, like I would if he ever was to embrace my face in his eyes and I manage a pathetic smile—humoring at the naivety that seems to reap within his mind.
So I tell them (the whispers that hides in the shadows of my heart and my mind) that I've stumbled upon a boy who plays staring contests and twiddles his thumbs—someone who likes to smile and procrastinate, a boy who paces back and forth and someone who can be loud and quiet in the same moment. So I tell them (the shadows that holds the whispers) that I've staggered upon a boy who colors inside the lines and disappears here and there, someone who you either love or you hate.
I swear I hate the way he peeks up at others from beneath his eyelashes and the way he's loud one day and quiet the next. I swear I hate the way he carries himself, almost like a prince straight from the fairytales. I detest the way he moves so patiently, almost like he doesn't take movement for granted. And the way he stands, hands tucked in pockets, so casually, but always smiling—always smiling.
And I swear, I swear, that I'll never adore him from afar, because even poetic drabbles couldn't describe the repulsion and intense sickening-gut-wrenching hatred that pounds into my heart (and head) when I see him laugh. I swear.
But sarcasm seeps through me and please believe me when I say I hate the way that boy smiles.