Am I an ogre?
It seems to be so, as I am encroaching on the tender and volatile age of fifteen and no member of the opposite sex has expressed an interest in me.

Ever.

She has spoken to me
her kindergarden "boyfriends"
her current ones
little and beautiful and lithe
big expressive eyes and a bright smile
like a eager puppet, the corners plucked up like strings
liquid brown irises and a delicate nose with a small upturn
disdainful of that heritage famous for prominant noses
bubbly giggly laugh
soft body, soft chest
fitting perfectly and comfortably into any shirt presented
stand. smile, bright and plucked, run a hand through rich brown sohpia-loren-locks
tell us about the view from five feet
tells us how she likes no-one now

Short hair big eye bad skin
big nose prominent
smile dictated by brain, not nature
blocky shoulder stands and watches
Bathingsuit unfilled, love handles spilling over bottoms
run your hand through dyed hair at the intersection of blonde and red and brown
then remember it's almost all gone, thank you hairdresser
remember they're looking at her not you
and if they look at you they'll laugh
smile your crooked yellow smile
voice poisoness with sarcasm at their avoidance
and self-important stares
"she's ugly
she's a liar
she's not girlfriend material"

Smile your Johnny Cash smile, the sneer folding half your face up
marring the marred to illustrate a point
you're an actress, you know, quirky's all you've got going for you
"Thank you" the ogre says, biting voice and sneering face
"My third head is fine, thank you very much. My one eye gives you it's best wishes as well"

They take a picture as he chooses her, not you, at the edge of a pool, with you cold and accepting of your desolate fate. You look it. She looks suprised that he shows interest, this beautiful little angel suprised who's naive and oblivious to her beauty and thus hoardes it because she refuses to acknowladge it.

Keep the picture. It is honest to the point of being too much so.