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<i>We wouldn’t get along</i>, I think.
Her hair pulls back into the tightest pony tail,
Straining back all of her blonde locks
And making them cascade together
A waterfall of hair spouting from an elastic band
<i>Bet she’s really mean,</i> I think.
She chats to the girl in front of her
As she paints her long, dainty nails
A bright, gaudy red, obviously
To emulate my souring mood
<i>Assume things about me,</i> I think
I smirk as she speaks in high-pitched squeaks .
Her vocabulary shortened to texts
Did she just say “LOL” in real life?
A walking, talking, cell phone.
How positively eloquent.
<i>I bet she’ll be rude to me,</i> I think.
<i>I better not talk to her,</i> I think
<i>I bet she’s such a hypocrite.</i>
And then, she drops the book
“Looking For Alaska” by John Green
Black cover, with a burnt-out candle
The book is worn; more worn than my copy
She seems ginger, almost caring
As she picks up that brilliantly written book
And places in neatly in her bag
Brilliant book. Fantastic book. Why does that hypocrite like that boo--
As the ponytailed girl chats, her smile gleaming,
I, the only hypocrite in the room,
Sit ashamed and silent, as I begin to write my poem