I look at the picture every night, under my blanket.
They took my other things, and it hurt. It hurt to see them take my posters, my blankets, even my pencils.
I shouldn’t have anything with him on, they said. It is not healthy for me.
I don’t believe them.
He loves me. I know he does. Just as I know, that it was me he smiled to. The other girls screamed for him. But it was me, who he wanted. I saw it in his eyes, as his perfect feet brought him closer to his limousine on the red carpet.
His brown eyes fell perfectly in his eyes. All I wanted was to touch him, to say I would never let him down.
He invited me to do so with his eyes.
They say I am crazy. But it is not true. They just wish to take him from me.
I can’t see him where I am now. There are no televisions. But they didn’t take the picture.
It is greasy from my fingerprints. For the 100th time I take it out from under my pillow. Safe, where no-one can see him, except of me.
It hurts to think about the millions of teenage girls wanting him. They think they love him, but I know they don’t. I am the only one.
His name is scratched in my arm, as prove. They took away my razorblades too. They cut my fingernails down.
They always say it is for my own sake. But they lie.
People say my love isn’t real, that he doesn’t love me. But they don’t know him like me.
The mobile display lights up, and I can see him. His eyes, his beautiful face. So close, but so far away.