She's picturesque perfect,
a red-headed angel.
She is good company,
can make people smile.
She is admirable, she is a socialite.
She is beautiful.
You must really love her.
I could never compete with her;
I don't know why I even try.
I am not beautiful, not particularly well-liked or special.
I am not a nothing, but I am awfully close.
I don't deserve you.
She deserves the moon.
I must force down the fluttering in my heart,
I must swallow this feeling.
Because if the shadows around me amount to a darkness,
that I could fall into at any moment, like a canyon,
then I couldn't handle the collateral pain,
no matter how childish.
No matter how stupid.