Crushed

I had a crush on a girl once. I didn’t know her age, but mine was 10. In my perspective, she was way taller than me. She was like a pillar of radiating beauty. I was a muggy pipsqueak. I used to fantasize about placing my lips on hers. I even dreamed about such scenario once. She seemed like an adult to me. Beyond my age limit. Turns out she was 15 when I was 10. Five years later, I was 15. I was out-and-about preaching Jehovah’s good news. That was back when I was zealous about it. Well, to my surprise, I encountered her. She was no pillar of beauty. The years had turned her into a diminutive, broken-down wench. She was such a slob. No make up meant that she was looking like a disaster. She might’ve just woken up because her hair resembled tangled, steel wire jumbled upon her head like a new-trend-gone-wrong. She was Not my childhood crush. If she was 15 while I was 15, I now realize that I wouldn’t have thought much of her. That goes to show, naivety blinds and morphs imperfection into that perfection that you ache for. So ask yourself, “would I kiss them if they were bald?”

“Her” by Vincent gets my juices flowing. 

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