Kay, so this is something I just wrote.. about two minutes ago. If it sucks, tell me so. This IS autobiographical, just so you know. I might enter this into a contest, but it's so personal that I wouldn't really want my parents to read it. I'm done ranting now.. go read.


A young girl,

Just barely thirteen,

Walks down the hall to the judgment room.

She knows she must look perfect.

She knows she must speak perfectly,

Or else she will be condemned.

She continues to walk with her head held high,

Although she is slowly dying inside

Of nerves.

Romance writers call them butterflies.

Cynics call them fake.

She calls them the reason for her pain.

One foot in front of another, she laughs with a friend

Even as she walks to the judgment room,

Social Studies,

And him.


She sees him as she enters, talking to his friends.

Her stomach flips as she strolls to her seat

Trying to look as confident as she can

Even if she is shaking inside

At the simple sight of him.

She composes herself, fixing her posture,

Letting indifference control her face

Though she cares so much.

He would never love her,

She knows this.

But she cannot simply tell her heart no

As she watches him from two seats back.

She will never forgive herself

For falling.

She is sitting in the judgment room,

The Social Studies room,

Watching him.