She’s No Enigma and I’m No John Green
Category: Poems
Current mood:  melancholy

Every day on my way to second period I see a girl I thought could never not love me. I was wrong, of course. She found a new guy and I was out of the picture in no time. Still, I speak highly of her. In an essay I wrote not too long ago (“Champagne for my Real Friends, Real Pain for my Sham Friends”), I addressed her as an eccentric writer, a creative mind, and an enigma. Those were only positives, meant to rid me of any sort of backlash for speaking ill of a friend to many. But what’s the truth without some negatives? I can call [redacted] and enigma all I want to cover up my truths, but that doesn’t do her justice. She’s not perfect and no less human than I. However, the bitter qualities she exemplified throughout my extended time with her were more than visible. Somewhat, I feel responsible, like I owe her something for being such a trustworthy confidant. [redacted] was, in essence, the love of my life.