The Nichole Blog (The first one)

You don't understand.

You only ever glimpse understanding of what it's like to see everything.

I see everything.

And you.

You, with your oil black hair, with your muted jade eyes, your ivory skin, your melodic slender body, and your little red dress...

You.

I know you.

You are everything.

Everything about you makes me ill...

I want to be you.

I want to be stunning.

I want poetic similes to flow out of his fingers in my direction.

I want something other than cheap tequila and resentment.

I want your body, your pretty face.

I want your little red dress.

I want to excite him.

I want to entice him.

I want to be mysterious.

I want to be ruthless and evil.

I want that look in his eyes.

I was you.

Once.

Twice.

And I,

I know you.

I know how see him.

I know how you look at him.

I know how you touch him and smile at him.

I know what you want from him.

I know what he is to you.

And I am here,

To kindly tell you,

To fuck off.

You don't deserve him.

Neither of us do.

I don't really know you, Nichole.

I've never met you.

I'm sure you're amazing, or he wouldn't look at you.

But I know you're acting like a little fucking tramp.

I know you're using him.

He wouldn't agree.

But I don't care.

I've done it enough to know it when I see it.

In that way, I know you.

You don't know him.

You don't know what you rejected.

You don't know how much it meant.

You had your chance.

And another.

And another.

If you knew, you would take this one.

But you're fucking clueless.

It's easy to miss, I'll give you that.

He is the master of mysterious.

He is much better than even you.

Probably because he's a little lost.

He doesn't know who he is.

But I do.

I know him.