Young Writers Society

1.

I'd never really known you before. I mean, you were the girl with the hacking laugh that annoyed the hell out of me, but I had to pretend it was infectious because everyone else was laughing like crazy, like they couldn't stop, and all the screwed-up laughter would drip and run down the pavement and pollute Every. Single. Gutter. But those days were nothing compared to these ones. At least I didn't have to spend much time with you. We ate together at first, and I found you kind of funny right back then, but only because I was a naive, screwed-up Year Eight. Even more screwed-up than I am now, and that's saying something.

But that's all changed.

I guess we're still as distant as before, but you know things about me that nobody else in the world knows, and that's bone-chillingly scary. And the reason I hate you now, instead of notcaringoneounce is because you know these things, yet you don't give a damn.

2.

Yeah, I know you did it all for attention, and whatever other diluted lies that you twist into answers to tell others, but some people are different. Maybe you've twisted and turned and pushed and pulled the truth so much that it's so distorted and even you believe all those lies you've told. But what does it matter? All those times you've seen my teeth on my lip and whatnot, and you've just sat there grinning and taking my complete fucking word for it when I say, "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you happy?" you go, and I just say:

"Yep", like I lie through my bleeding lips every day of the week. And I do, really.

3.

I suppose the first stanza was okay. It all started out pretty well, actually, when you think about it. It could have been a nightmare for me/you/anyone involved/anyone not involved. But the subtle method you used really worked. I mean, I couldn't have broken out in tears in the middle of Geography, could I? And anyway, I know I go on about how words affect me so much more, but seeing as you're not exactly Sylvia Plath or anything, your writing on that lined page wasn't as earth-shattering as it would have been if you'd confronted me with a spillage of spoken words. Plus, it took all the pressure off you. But I just want to say, when you're a counsellor or a shrink, or whatever the hell you want to call it, you can't ask people about things by writing a note to them - with your disastarous spelling, especially - in the middle of a video about Byron Bay or whatever we were watching that day. God, you can't expect me to remember it, with my heart thudding in my chest, and history being made every single second.

4.

Do you realise you were the first to know? You're the only one to know, even now, and maybe we'll both die, being the only ones who know. Unless you've told, that is. I wouldn't be surprised, at all. The other time, and it must have been almost a year ago now, you fucking let the words drip from your tongue like sugary gossip (which, really, it was). And that was when I hardly even knew you. I'd still say I hardly even know you now, but there are certain things which bond people, and one of them is blood at intervals, whether entirely smiled at or not.

5.

I don't think I can ever forgive you for deserting me in P.E. and Geography those times and making everything hell for me. And for drawing silence's little feathery wings around the both of us. Because there is only one thing worth talking about, and the rest is nothing.

6.

I saw you on the train that Friday afternoon, when we had both come out of our maths exam, me worrying about putting an extra "2" in and you probably worrying about something or other. Though it didn't show on your face, and it didn't show on mine, so it's anyone's guess. You were with her and I was with another her, and you grinned and waved at me like nothing was seperating the two of us. Nothing like a battery-operated electric fence that would zap us every time we reached out to do anything. But I reckon we could (and still can) jump it and come off with not even a scratch. Maybe.

7.

You know, I think if we're being totally honest, not tea-and-pink-cakes-honest, but catching-the-bus-home-honest, I'm not Lauren-esque, and I never will be. I'm subtly fucked-up. Not like her. I'm not bleeding-at-the-head type of fucked-up. I haven't thought of a name for my type yet, one that's poetic but not so sugar-poetic that it doesn't make any sense. One that fits and sounds good at the same time.

And you know, I don't even think it's a case of the Lauren stuff. I think it's more a communication problem, because I am just so bad at saying what I feel, and every second word I usually stuff up anyway, so that's why I don't talk much. I've never, ever been good at taking a breath and saying it. I don't say, I write.

8.

And maybe the way your original blonde hair hangs down and your the way your eyes are sculpted with mascara and the way your face glows with what popularity and acceptance always brings just hardens my eyes. I smile, and even though it's fake, you and no one else ever realise because I'm just so good at it. Most people have to craft their lies, but I have to craft my truths.

I don't care though, 'cause that's just the way things go. The thing I'm having trouble being honest about, even with myself, is that I'm just so completely jealous of you. You, with the sparkling people around you, you, with the stories about makingoutoncinemafloors, you, with the confidence that racks every particle of you, and mocks all my particles. True, me being jealous of you is nothing new. In fact, it's getting kind of boring by now. I mean, I'm jealous of her, and her, and her, and her, and even her.

9.

So you can keep laughing and playing the role of "shrink" or whatever you think you're doing, but it's not working for me. I've been enveloped by silence too many times, and I'm starting to get used to it, but that doesn't soften the slap or lighten the bruise.

I used to think you were so unpredictable, and my stomach used to kick me from the inside when I thought about the next lesson or whatever, but now you're getting monotonous. I'm still as jealous as hell, but if you don't pick up from where we left off, I will.

Written: Saturday 22nd May 2003, 8:40pm