I can’t remember your
name. Normally, it would
bother me, but it doesn’t.
That’s probably because
I never knew you. That’s
probably because you
went to a different school
(don’t know which) and
I’m not the kind of
girl who knows boys from
other schools. Sorry.
Don’t feel too bad about
it though, lots of people
from my grade knew
you, cared about you.
The girl with a first name
for her last (Jennifer
Jamie) wore a black
cocktail dress to your
funeral and it was cold
in December so my
neighbor borrowed
my friend’s black coat;
she returned it two day
later stinking of cigarettes
and MissHunnyBun08
has R I P next to your
name in her AIM profile.
She also typed up (or
copy/pasted) some
Jimmy Eat World lyrics:
may angels lead you in.
May angels lead you in,
boy whose name I can’t
recall. Tyler or Andrew...
it possibly started with
a “j”, like Justin or Jason.
Even if I can’t remember who
you are, you will be
remembered by your peers
because you died so young
and (far as I’m concerned)
from suicide. Even the
sluts pay attention in
health class; they know
what gonorrhea is, what
it looks like, to avoid it.
They put the condoms
on the bananas like
experts, like infomercial
eye candy seducing the
blender. They say you
weren’t a druggie (I’ll buy
it) but you must have
known, nameless boy, that
mixing steroids and cocaine
is lethal. It isn’t rocket
science – isn’t brain surgery;
though I heard your parents
paid some surgeons to pick
your brain to pieces and find
out what you were thinking.
What were you thinking?
Tell me, because I want to
know, want to tell everyone
what you felt when it happened-
what is was like to watch
your parents come into
your room in the morning
and see their son dead at
his computer. What was it like,
when the angels led you in?