Author's note: I know my style is a little unorthodox, my own personal spin on free verse, but go with it. This is for Love's Crash Test Dummy, whose stories I absolutely adore and has inspired me to write for Make It or Break It.
You're nothing to him.
But that doesn't stop you.
It doesn't stop how your ears perk and your lungs grow heavy.
All he has to do is walk in a room.
And all the girls go, "Edward Cullen who?"
Even more so, when he's in his element.
Working those rings, maneuvering that horse, flying down the mat.
It's because he's so beautiful.
So fucking beautiful.
He ignores you and it makes you hungry.
Hungry for his taste, his touch, his love.
He glares and it makes you stare.
He scowls and your heart stops.
He walks away and it makes you chase him.
At first it's just another game, another prize to be won.
And you're game. Always fucking game.
Like when you're on that mat.
Moving, flipping, posing.
Begging someone, anyone, to choose you.
And they do.
Every. Single. Time.
That's what it means to be National Champion, right?
National Fucking Champion.
After all, you were bred for this.
(Absent) athlete father (jerk); (cheating) popstar mother (whore).
A dash of perfect pink.
Recipe for a show pony.
A trophy to flaunt, not a daughter to love.
The gold around your neck speaks volumes.
It makes a statement.
It gives you worth.
But you know you'd rather his arms around you than any ribbon.
You'd rather the pressure of his lips than the weight of any medal.
Gold won't keep you warm at night.
It's heavy and cold like lies and baggage.
It can't make you shiver with a single stolen stare.
And it's completely ridiculous.
Because you find yourself crying over a boy who isn't yours.
He doesn't care.
He doesn't think you're worthy.
Worst of all, he belongs to your best friend.
Her first crush.
Her first kiss.
But she pushes him aside for gymnastics.
His eyes are on her.
Her eyes are on the gold around your neck.
She chooses gymnastics every time and it kills him.
Seeing him dying makes your insides rot.
It's the vicious cycle.
You want to give up, turn a blind eye.
But that thing in your chest –
the carnage Carter left behind
– begs you not to.
And, of course, you give in.
Because you're weak, Kaylie Cruz.
You're so fucking weak.
But then he starts to notice you.
The glares turn to glances.
The scowls turn to smirks.
He walks towards you, not away.
It all makes you blush.
So you wait for Nicky Russo.
But Nicky will always be waiting for Payson Keeler.
And the real fucked up part?
A part of you is sure you've always known.
And still, you don't care.
Because butterflies are butterflies even coated in betrayal.