She isn't the girl who gets picked first,

She isn't the girl who people swoon over,

She isn't the girl who is the pick of the litter,

She isn't the girl who gets compared to a red rose,

She's more like the girl who no one wanted but was forced on them due to the uneven number of people in gym class,

She's more like the runt,

More like that wilted red rose with so many thorns it hurts to even look,

She's not number one to anyone,

She's more like a negative number that annoys people when she's in their equation,

Maybe she was never the beauty queen or even miss congeniality but she's her own kind of beauty,

Her own definition of pretty.

Even if she were all those things,

I would accept her onto my team,

Even if she was wilted and had thorns,

I would prick my fingers 

Time

And

Time

Again,

Just to fight against her defense to become closer to her.

There would be no beauty contest,

Because

It'd be so unfair for all the other girls to lose automatically.

She wouldn't be the pick of the litter,

Because, In my mind,

There would be no other choices.

She may not be number one,

Inevitably because,

She's my Only One.