When I was in seventh grade, my English teacher would make us read Teen Ink articles on Friday afternoons and write a short summary about them in our journal. To thirteen-year old me, this didn’t mean anything at all. I couldn’t write, and I still can’t, but now, at age fifteen, I can at least try. This particular piece of writing- if you can even call it that- serves no purpose except to convey the message that I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love. I don’t know how, or why, but I have something much more painful than butterflies in my stomach at the moment.
You see, the boy I love so recklessly is my former English teacher’s son. I will continue to retain the hope that she will somehow read this and understand. I will continue to retain the hope that she will somehow read this and show him and he will understand. Because that’s all I want: for someone to understand.
That I love him.
That I’m afraid to love him.
That my love for him is not poetic, but I wish it were, because then maybe this poor attempt at writing would be of some value.