Thla should ba three different letters, all
addressed to you Men
lie.
They
lie sbamelesBly.
Every last one of
tbem. The muelalans, the poets, the class presidents, and editors of the newspaper.
They
most frustrating thing of all
Is
all lie.
And the
saddest,
that they still make me
believe them. Them with their little games and quiet,
endearing charm. Their smell, their
size.
Their weakness
and their strength. They make me smile and cry and ask myself Intimate, Imposing questions to which I have no anwers.
They
.
.
*
you.
You keep me locked In my room and send me screaming out Into the damp night. You leave me sitting with obtrusive lumps In my throat, f iQllng back on cQl I know
how to be—nothing.
I went to class again
today.
Not that I make a habit
of not going, but today was different. I sat there, wishing
X
couldx^ smell the soap you showered with or see the tiny droplets of rain resting on those long, dark lashes (my
weakness) that drape your eyes. I took notes furiously
although I dlddb understand anything the teacher was saying. 1 always do that—try to distract
runaway thoughts that overtake today.
It.
my mind from
It worked pretty well
At least until you touched my arm and
said something
sUly about me having the sniffles and did that pouty thing that unraveld my concentration. Then I fell apart Inside.
