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Beauty queen of only eighteen,
She had some trouble with herself.
You remember Roxy Lalonde before all this started. You remember how she used to sit on the roof of her house and you would sit on the roof of your apartment and together you would lament about being the last two humans. And you would count the stars, and she would count the carapaces.
Well, he would sit on the roof of your apartment. He would count the stars. He would lament about being one of the last two humans. But you guess it doesn't matter anymore.
And it was three in the morning for you and it was nearly four in the morning for her but you know she didn't care, so you didn't, either. Even though you were nearly two thousand miles apart, you just felt so close to her, like you could reach out and grab her hand and never let it go.
Sometimes he still brings you up to the roof, to sit and sigh and retell tales of The Batterwitch and her cronies. But you don't listen to his stories. You're too busy scanning the sky, wondering if she's still doing the same.
It's the same sky it used to be. The stars that wink at you are the same stars that shine down on her, and it makes you feel so close to her. You imagine those stars are the same ones which glint in her eyes, which grin when she winks, and you wish you could see it in person. You've always wanted to see her in person.
He was always there to help her,
She always belonged to someone else.
He used to love her. Well, maybe he would have, if he hadn't grown up a bit more. Maybe that's why you do. You didn't always love her so much. It used to be just a small little twinge, almost like a glitch, that would make you smile a little wider or blush a little redder at the mention of her name. Or, it would, if you had teeth or veins. But you don't.
It used to be a crush. Just a sweet, innocent crush.
But now you know better. Now you know you're completely in love with this girl, wilder than your thirteen-year-old dreams.
I drove for miles and miles and wound up at your door.
I've had you so many times but, somehow, I want more.
She calls him when she's drunk. She calls him when she's hungover. She calls him just to hear his voice, and he knows you listen, just to hear hers. She always sounds like she's laughing. Really, with the world around her, you're sure she should be crying. But she's not.
One time, though, she did.
She was hungover. You know she was hungover because she never cries when she's drunk. When she's drunk, she hiccups and giggles and slurs her words. She types things wrong because she can't see the letters. She's so happy.
But she wasn't happy then. So she must not have been drunk anymore. She must have woken up on the roof again, polluted sunlight stinging her head, and seen all her sleek carapace neighbors going about their daily business. She must have envied their hard outer shells.
She must envy yours, too.
"You don't know how much it hurts, Dirk," she had said. "You don't know how not fun it is to love you when you love Jake."
I'm sorry, Roxy, you wanted to say. I'm sorry he's stupid and doesn't see how perfect you are.
"Everyone just adores Jake and there's no one left for me. Even Janey likes him better."
There's me, Roxy. There's always been me.
"Why don't you love me, Dirk?"
Because he thought you'd never love him back. He thought he wasn't good enough for you, so he moved on. He was so stupid, Roxy. I tried to talk him out of it. I promise, I tried.
"We're the last two left. Everyone else is all carapacian…"
You expected him to respond to that. You wanted him to respond to that. But he stayed silent.
"You said it'd be us against the world, Dirk, just like my mom and your bro. You said we'd be heroes, you and me."
Don't do this to me, Roxy, please.
"But I don't feel like a hero."
I'm sorry.
"I'm just a stupid human girl with no mom and a collection of mutated cats."
You know you would have been crying by that point, if you had eyes from which you could actually cry. But you don't. Sometimes you're not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Then it was a good thing. You're happy he couldn't see you crying, because then he would know.
But he always knows.
You're just as much a part of him as he is of you.
I don't mind spending every day
Out on your corner in the pouring rain.
You're scared you'll turn out like him. You're scared you'll forget about her, you're scared you'll move on. You don't want to move on. You don't want to love Jake. You want Roxy, only Roxy, always Roxy. You want her vodka breath and pink text and her numerous typos. You want her blonde hair and her black lipstick and her flirtatious demeanor. You want her partying and wizards and mutated cats, her hangovers and headaches and happy laugh. You want her to smile more.
You want her to love you like she loves him.
But you know she never will.
Look for the girl with the broken smile.
Ask her if she wants to stay a while.
You don't see what's so great about Jake anyway. Sure, he's tall and tan and muscular from running around outdoors all day. Sure, he's got that adorable way he talks, like he's been raised by bad movies, because you know he has. Sure, he's got this weird and slightly creepy affinity for blue women—categories into which Dirk cannot fit—that almost borderlines fetishistic. Sure, he's almost too gullible and sure, he loves pumpkins, but he's nothing special.
He's not Roxy.
You guess you can see why someone would love Jake. You can see why Dirk would be attracted to him. You can see why he might go so far as to say his feelings surpass mere infatuation.
But you will never see why anyone would choose Jake over Roxy.
You're happy Dirk made you when he was thirteen. You're happy you have feelings for Roxy. You're not happy his went away.
You're not happy because you know he could be so good for her. You know he could make her a better person and she could do the same for him. You know he used to love her, back when he was you. You know they'd be fantastic together.
You're not happy because you know he can hold her and you never will.
You hate him for taking that ability for granted and letting it go to waste.
And she will be loved,
And she will be loved.
Just once, you want to be able to hold her, just to know what it feels like. Technically, you know what it would feel like. But you still want to feel it. You want her to know there's someone out there who still loves her, who'll still hold her hair back when she's leaning above the toilet bowl, who'll still make her coffee when she's hungover, who'll still tell her she's beautiful, even if she doesn't believe it.
You want to do these things because you know Dirk could, but he never will.
Maybe he wanted to, once upon a time, back when he was you. But he doesn't now, and you don't think he ever will again.
He gave up on her.
You'll never forgive him for that. And you hope she won't, either.
Tap on my window, knock on my door
I want to make you feel beautiful.
She likes talking to you. She likes you because you make her feel good. You make her feel loved. But it's no real, it's not right. You're not Dirk. You were Dirk. Or, rather, Dirk was you. But he's not anymore, and you resent him for it. He grew up, he changed. She loves him because he grew up, because he changed.
She loves him because he stopped being you.
You still like talking to her. You like reminding her of the times when you would sit on the roof of your apartment and she'd sit on the roof of her house and you'd count the stars and she'd count the carapaces. You like reminding her about how she'd always stay up to talk to you, even if it was three in the morning for you and four in the morning for her.
You like reminding her that that Dirk, the old Dirk, still exists. He exists in you. And even if she didn't love him, you sure do love her. And no matter how much you want to be angry at her, no matter how much you want to be hurt, no matter how much you wish it was different, you can't blame her.
It's not right. It'll never be right.
He's strong and sensible and human.
She's the most beautiful girl you'll ever know.
And you're just a fucking pair of sunglasses.
I know I tend to get so insecure.
It doesn't matter anymore.