I love my little black sheep. But he doesn’t know I exist. He’s not handsom in a classic way. His nose is too big, his eyes are an ordinary shade that match his ordinary hair. His body is fit, but he’s an ex-jock, so what do you expect? But I’ve never gotten a second look from him. He asked me to the movies once, but I’m so low on myself that I thought he was calling me a pity case…now I’m not sure. Now we rarely talk, but I love to listen to his voice. I love to lay my head back and listen to his words, though he rarely says anything truly important. I love how he smiles, but ducks his head to hide it. And how when his friends make fun of him, how he just laughs it off, though I know it hurts him so. Because if it hurts me, it has to hurt him. We’re so different, I’m ugly, he’s beautiful. He’s smart, and I’m failing. He may be the black sheep, but at least he’s in the flock. He’s an outcast, but he has friends. I’m the wolf in sheep’s clothing. I keep the flock safe, and yet I enjoy ripping them to shreds.