the other day i found an old piece of unfinished poetry folded up neatly and placed on my desk. i very calmly told my mother, "i see you've been reading my poetry again."
she stared at me, wide-eyed. "that's yours? i thought it was something you were studying for english class or something. i skimmed over it and it was way too deep for me."
and then, "can i read it? obviously i won't be able to analyse it."
"fine, whatever."
the only reason why that poem - which was very dark and romantic and not the sort of thing you'd want your mother to read at all - was printed out was because i brought it into creative writing. creative writing is, by the way, the most awesome collection of jaded, angsty hipsters you will ever find in a school setting. we're so fucking cool, i feel like we should be smoking opium. i'd handwritten that poem over the course of a few uneventful sessions. one of my new friends read the first draft, and she said it was "very neil gaiman-y :D" which totally made my life for a day.
in one of the universe's cruel ironies, this poem was written with her future boyfriend in mind, and neither of us knew it at the time.
in retrospect, this may have been the first thing that occurred to her when she found out who i 'liked', because it sure as hell would've been to me.