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The lyrics are scribbled and messy on my page, my handwriting is shit. I’m the only one who can read them—I like it that way. Everyone can turn on the radio and hear the lyrics that way, not the messy, raw ones I’ve been writing for an hour.
Most of my songs are the same. Unrequited love, it’s what everyone writes about. Everyone writes about loving someone and not being loved back, and I’m just another artist, (I doubt we could call ourselves artists these days, just people who copy each other and call it art.) But if that many people write about unrequited love, it must be important, right? Or a big deal? More people write about unrequited love than they do about the time they fell over and got a painful gash in their leg, which eventually got infected leading to unbelievable amounts of agony. Unrequited love must hurt more than that, if so many people chose to write about it. Another artist who writes about the boy down the road.
The boy down the road.
The boy down the road is sweet. He has ginger hair which on special occasion, he dyes black. He orders sweet more often than savoury when eating out. He’s special. He’s pure and untouched. He loves his family and is single. I write songs about him, he doesn't know. I wonder if he ever will, I wonder if he’ll figure out that the slightly famous pop star down the road is gay and likes him. I wonder if he notices that the guy singing on the radio has described him in great detail. I wonder if he knows.
I gain courage and talk you, I know it’s wrong. I know you can find someone better than me, but maybe I’m the only one who has the strength to keep you safe. I tell you my name and that I live up the road. You nod and ask if I’m waiting for anyone. I’m not.