So Fuckin’ Special

She was on-stage. A breathing, porcelain-

skinned, Botticelli angel. The most beautiful creature ever to have sung.

Sitting on third row center, my eyes unable to move away during the whole show. The shape of her smile, the subtle graceful steps she uses to moves herself effortlessly across the stage, her unique way of making her inner beauty burst out into song, surrounding her with an aura of sheer divinity.

I’ve been watching her from afar for years now, too scared to move near. She is literally the girl of my dreams. The one still unaware of giving me the best day of my life. But she doesn’t know what she is to me. She can never.

In my world, she’s the epitome of everything beautiful and kind in this world. She always

has a kind smile, a comforting word, a graceful way of carrying herself. She’s a polyglot, a resident of the world, and MY GOD, can she sing.

And sings she does. For a moment, even though she’s just one voice in an arrangement of voices, her voice is all I hear, enveloping me in the smooth, velvety world of her aria.

I want to just be someone for her.

I try getting my mind glued back together. She is just a girl, a human just like me, I say, trying to make myself rational again, unsuccessfully. But all the reasons why I shouldn’t even try keep popping-up in my mind. She’s older than you. She’s gorgeous. She’s speaks French. She’s lived in freakin’ Paris !And, as always, a part in my mind tries to fights back these insecurities, tries to come up with reasons, and a plan to be a better person for her. But once more it fails.

She’s too fuckin’ special for you.

And then, with a practiced bravado, a jukebox in my mind starts to play my exact, inner monologue with a cocky triumph. It plays my song.

When you were here before,
Couldn't look you in the eye,
You're just like an angel,
Your skin makes me cry;

You float like a feather,
In a beautiful world,
I wish I was special,
You're so fuckin' special;

But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo,
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here;

I don't care if it hurts,
I wanna have control,
I want a perfect body,
I want a perfect soul;

I want you to notice,
When I'm not around,

You're so fuckin' special,
I wish I was special;

But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo,
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here, ohhhh, ohhhh

She's running out again,
She's running,
She runs runs runs runs...
Runs...

Whatever makes you happy,

Whatever you want,
You're so fucking special,
I wish I was special;

But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo,
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here,

I don't belong here…

------

It’s the end of the show. The artists take their bow. I clap. I can’t help but to stare. But she-- she sees me! I smile. She smiles back. Then my eyes can’t take that much of her and shy away. My gaze betrays me; a mirror of my own insecurities.

But something is different this time. Something inside me has clicked in some way. I am not the insecure boy I was. I am the only master of my own destiny.

I am stronger than myself. I can conquer my own insecurities. And I am fucking special too!

The curtain falls and the spell is broken. I’m back in a crowded theater in a throng of people anxious to get out and carry on with their lives. But I can’t move. Not just yet. My inner world had been shook, and the exterior world’s

none the wiser except for a lonely tell-tale tear that dares run down my cheek.

“Thus, with her song only, the Angel cured his soul…”