I bore white-hot angry holes into the back of your skull
but only after standing on tiptoe
and craning my neck.
I’ve eagerly awaited this show for months,
squealed in triumph when I scored tickets
at 10:01 a.m., and the venue sold out three minutes later.
Now I stand in what had been the perfect spot
before you arrived,
out of the crush of the crowd,
but with a clear view of the center of the stage.
Then all eight feet six inches of you
walked casually right in front of me.
I was hoping you were merely passing through
on your way to purchase another $10 Bud Light.
But you stand there now, frozen to the spot,
staring at your cell phone,
oblivious to the fact that I am half your height
and was here before you.
I try to peer around you,
still uncomfortably on tiptoe.
Your dumb friend keeps leaning in to chat,
so I can’t view the performance
through the space between you two either.
I seethe quietly,
reading the back of your t-shirt for the hundredth time.
It proves you're a big fan of a particularly shitty band.
You keep talking during the show
and texting someone else.
Someone calls you, and you answer your phone.
“I’m over here,” you cry, waving fruitlessly.
Then you notice me standing behind you,
frowning mouth and dagger eyes.
If you thought I was cute,
you'd offer to stand behind me
and then stare at my ass.
But I am Not Cute,
so I am just a hostile, impotent ghost.