A boy wrote a poem about me once.

He read it out loud to the whole class and titled it "Her" and everyone knew it was about me. He's not the first boy to write about me, they all know when a boy hums a sappy love song he wrote himself, it's about me, they all know when a boy is asked to read aloud a piece about wanting something desperately, it's about me, they all know when the quiet, nice girl stutters through something the teacher wanted her to share with her head down a furious blush, it's about me, poems are the same.

There's always a hushed murmur, a unanimous name at their lips.

Alison.

My name. Because it's always me.

And maybe I like the attention, I always have liked being the star of the show. Whatever. That doesn't matter.

He didn't slump his back like they usually do, he didn't stall, desperately wishing he didn't have to. He sauntered up confidently, poem unwrinkled in his hand. He smiled right at me, it was a dazzling smile. The kind with blinding white teeth that sparkle and shine and gentle dimples.

I sat up a little straighter, folding my hands and shooting him a calculating look, examining him thoroughly. He was cute, tousled, light hair, tall, mysterious eyes, defined, tall cheekbones. Not quite tall, dark, and handsome, but close enough. Mysterious. I like mysteries. Always have, always will.

He cleared his throat before granting me a sly wink like it was some dirty secret. I almost laughed at the thought, I knew almost every secret in the room. I knew the pretty girl who kept her mouth shut and her nose in a book while pushing up her glasses, with the ultraconservative parents, had a crush on me; I knew the gangly boy with dark hair and freckles thought I was pretty but also thought the boy about to read his poem was perfect; I knew the teacher with greying hair and horn rimmed glasses was having an affair; I knew the loud mouthed boy who always talked back got slapped by his mom; I was Alison, I always knew these things.

I always do.

And maybe that was part of the reason his poem went the way it did.

"Gorgeous.
That's her, in a single word.
But open the book,
There's so much more;
She's cunning,
She smirks and she teases you
With the secrets she learns.
She's an introvert,
She sits and watches us,
Memorizing the little things.
She's a leader,
She spits out orders,
Knowing you'll follow them.
She's determined,
She trudges on even if you run,
Her goal is always within reach.
She's a liar,
She does it more than she breathes,
Without a blink of the eye.
She knows you won't catch her.
But if you look,
You might just see it —
Catch a hint of devil in her angel eyes,
Find a bit of heaven in her pretty lies.
Because that's her,
Beautiful,
Tragic,
Mysterious,
Her name is on the tip of your tongue,
But yours is never on hers,
And she knows that's immortality."

They clapped.

My lips twitched in a slight smile, he's caught on well. I wondered for a brief moment though, how I hadn't noticed him staring. It's only a moment and it's gone with his name.

But I know his name. I know him so very well.

He told me he loves me later. I smiled coyly and sauntered off, my hips swaying naturally. I like the mystery that comes with seduction too much not to sway them.

A boy wrote a poem about that mystery once.