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Worry About It in the Library

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Does he not try hard enough because he is afraid to? Afraid to move? Afraid to move and get up and go because it just might be the end of that certain friend or friend or does he even try to move ahead? Or is this constantly playing in his head? Like a soundtrack on repeat repeat the song won’t end until it’s completely memorized. Completely ingrained. And here he doesn’t even know how to write his paper, his paper is going to be crapped up. Like he is. Crapped up. Papers in general aren’t ever this angry? Is he angry? Or just confused? Does he like the smell and feel of someone else’s saliva on his tongue? Or does he just do it to have it done? Does he mean it when he says, “I love you,” or is it just to feel something different than sawdust and concrete and Paper Towel Man’s complaints? Or is she better for him? Would it be different if he had her to wrap his arms around? Her hips are narrower, her hair is longer, and her eyes are blue. Blue she turns in all of her homework in on time. Blue. Her hair is yellow. Mine is mousy. Poop-resemblance. Dr. Poop. How are you feeling today? Terrible. But I thought I loved this boy. Scratch that, I never loved him. I might not even like him. He’s a horrible kisser. Doesn’t know what he wants. Doesn’t know where he’s going. Doesn’t know who I am. Apparently everyone else does though. Except a select few. I hated Mr. Kubit. He hated me. I respect that. In fact, I admire that. I wish I could do that. I need to study for music theory. I need to get my notes organized. I need to call off the “double date” before he finds out. Before I get sick. Before I go. I’m ready to go. People snicker. Don’t they know it’s not nice? They care about being nice. Not about being good. Not about knowing. If I knew, would I be nice? Would I love unconditionally? What would my life be like? I can only imagine. No fear. What would it be like? To not be afraid. I’m afraid me.




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