The truth hurts whether it is spoken or not,
I’m not “hip,” and I’m not “hot,”
No “swag,” no “feels,” nothing to see,
Not whatever it’s à la mode to be-
Not “in,” not “with it,” not “making the scene,”
And I’ve never been, but why is she so mean?
It would have been bad enough just as an eye roll-
The superior side glance, the laughs, extract their toll,
But she said “you’re not cool.” It still hurts inside,
In the moment I could have just cried.
She doesn’t like me, or care if I’ve died.
Is there someplace I can crawl under and hide?
She’s so pretty, I love her laugh, her smile,
Her ease of being, her walk, her style
I feel so awkward, and she is cool,
She’s so smooth, and I’m just a “tool.”
God, I love her, but she has no idea.
And now how could I ever say how I feel?