The Death Of Me

He walks the hallways of school reluctantly and tentatively. For a boy he looks too timid. His highly baggy hoodies draped over his body. His sweat pants hanging by his waist loosely. His waist no thinner than a weak tree trunk.

His face a color of pale. His lanky figure walks down the hallway, his books tucked under his arm. For a nerd, different it is not to carry a bag. His shoulder usually slumped and seemed like defeat hovered upon him.

Never have I looked right into his eyes but the hipster glasses hang on his nose, are a major contribution to hus adorableness. His eyes, behind the glasses are a piercing ocean of blue, that strikes the sky and beats it to beauty.

His walk maybe tentative, his posture maybe lanky, his eyesaybe his most attractive feature, it amazes me how ninety eight percent of people overlook this piece of beauty.

Never have I talked to the boy in my life but just by the way his acts is all I need to know off what he is.

The boy is innocent, not a speck of Corruption inside him. The boy knows what pain is. Every look of his, has a good content of it.

There are many days when I don’t see him walk the halls of the school. He leaves me wondering of his whereabouts. For a nerd, he misses a lot of school.

There are also days when I see him smile at the people in the hallways. A smile that usually goes unacknowledged by the crowd.

The boy doesn’t lack guts, I’ve seen him stand for what’s worth. Its amazing how he carries the ‘I don’t care’ attitude. And I have come to admire the fact that he won’t say a word to people in school, because they aren’t worth the sound.

One day, that repeats more often now. He walked the hallways like everyday. Instead, his limp was the thing I came to notice first. Looked close and his peircing blue pools of beauty were rounded by black. His cheek, a pale purple in color. A black eye and a bruise. A limp leg and possibly a couple cracked ribs.

He sat beside me in class. His pencil toppled over the desk. He received it but his palm was on his chest, soothing his probably cracked ribs. A small smile plays on his face, though a professionally fake one.

The pain he endures, that his eyes hold, is all it takes for me to guilt trip mm him into me helping him. He may look timid, and reluctant. But his inside is nothing but brave.

The life he leads is not something a person should have to deal with. Yet, he does. I haven’t known why, but he holds a hell lot of secrets and he deserves the respect.

His bruises are bad, his arms have knife cuts, his cheeks have blue and purple bruises. Hus hair is usually disheaveld, his eyes and in pains and hollow. His hope are somewhere in the dumps and somewhere, deep down, I hate to admit the fact. But I pity him.

But at the same time how he shows up at school and walks down the hallways the way he had ni care in the world, deserves a standing ovation.

The boy speaks as much as a lazy man is into work. The couple words I’ve heard are a melody to my ears and the rest—his breathing is a good comfort.

For a boy so south to me, saying that he would b me the death of Me, is ridiculous. But nonetheless, undeniably True.

The lanky figured, reluctant, brave boy is the death is me.


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