The first day I walked into poetry class, I knew I was doomed. Your dark, brooding eyes fell on my combat boots and skater dress combo, and I became conscious of my every move. Was I swinging my arms too much? Was I slouching? Why did I care? Brooding poet wasn’t my type.

Your pale skin could have rivaled a vampire’s, especially with your black, swooshy hair. Seriously, could you be more stereotypical?

When you read poetry, your voice was velvet. Damn it, it was like you popped out of a teen vampire novel. No offense to teen vampire novels.

I’d sell my soul to get you out of my head.

 

Fiction

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