And I tried three times (maybe four) to write the first sentence of the story of a girl who is murdered in October. It sounds really silly and lame when said so plainly like that. But that's what it is. She's killed, flat out, anonymously, left in a bleeding heap on a suburban bedroom floor.
And so I tried to get the weather right.
And I tried to get the park bench right.
And I tried so hard to get this girl's life right.
But I couldn't.
I failed a little bit.
And it's because I just posted a secret on six billion secrets.
And it's really distracting me.
I could've phrased it better.
Used better vocabulary.
But I didn't.
I wrote down what needed to be said.
And granted, it's silly and sappy, but
It's been said.
and I've sent two postsecrets,
And I sort of kind of maybe quite possibly gave you this poem a while ago that might have just maybe had some subtle undertones of my awkward feelings for you.
Maybe.
And that was really drawn out.
But hell, it needed to be.
Because that's AWKWARD.
Really.
And we haven't spoken about it.
I don't know if you want to.
I know that I don't.
Because a part of me regrets handing you that poem.
Sort of inspired by a Velvet Underground song,
Because I know you like them.
And I do too.
And it was the last day of school.
and I wonder what you did with it.
As in, where'd the poem go?
I'm curious about that.
Has it gone on a journey?
Have you kept it?
(I pray that you haven't...)
(Although I don't actually pray.)
But if you have,
Why?
Did you get what I wasn't really saying?
I suppose you may have.
But I'm hoping you didn't.
And this is one of those things I haven't actually ever talked about.
Because I feel really stupid.
Why did I give you that poem?
Where did I even get the guts to do that?!
Because now I can hardly talk to you on my own.
I get all nervous and quiet.
And you're all happy peppy.
And I'm so afraid I'll say something idiotic
Or I'll slip up and say something revealing.
But I really, truly, deep-down fear
That someday you're going to bring up that poem.
And if you do,
I will choke and die.
Figuratively speaking, of course,
As I don't expect somebody to appear out of the blue and strangle me or something.
But I'm hoping you never, ever, never bring it up.
I really hope it got lost before you read it.
Unlikely, as I put it on your desk.
But hey, maybe your desk was cluttered on said last day,
And you lost it.
That'd be fantastic.
But if you read it,
I hope you read it at face value.
But I really, really, secretly
(or not so much secretly now that I'm saying it...)
Wish that you kept it.
And that you read it often.
And that you got what I was trying to say.
And that you'd very much like to reciprocate said feelings.
If you did keep it.
I'd die.
In the good way.
But you'll never know I said any of this.
That's the grand thing about you not knowing that I have a blog.
And you won't know, now will you?
It'll be my best kept, and most rambling secret.
So you'll never know that I'm scared about that poem.
At least.
I hope you don't.
A really hope you don't.
Maybe I'll be brave and bring it up some day.
I'm going to stop rambling now.
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