Teenage Love Affair

Chapter 4

AMEEN IN THE MM ⬆⬆⬆⬆

If I were a boy

I think I could understand how it feels to love a girl

I swear I'd be a better man. . .

----Beyonce, "If I Were a Boy"

I felt as if I had weights pressed against my tongue. I hadn't heard from Ameen in three days, and I swear I could do nothing without crying. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and I promise you I wanted no one--- and I mean no one--- who lived in my house to talk to me. Everything they said got on my nerves, and in return I greeted them with straight attitude. I wanted to scream,"Don't you see my heart is bleeding on the floor? Can't you see that I'm missing my man like crazy? Can't you see that nothing you say to me will be as important as what I'm feeling right now? Can't you just leave me the hell alone?"

But no, my mother stayed in my neck about making sure the house stayed clean and the dishes were washed. And Hadiah was in my face every day telling me stories about what went on with her in school.

Can you say inconsiderate?

I laid faceup on my bed while slow jams serenaded me in the background, and I wondered why I couldn't have the perfect life. Why did everything have to be so complicated and confusing? Why couldn't Ameen understand me and be reasonable?

This was hell.

I turned on my side and wondered who I could call and confide my sorrows in, but I really didn't want to hear Asha or Courtney's opinion, and I most definitely would cut somebody if they even suggested that I quit my baby. So I decided that the only one who would handle my secrets were the pages of my diary.

I took my scared book from my nightstand and bled sorrows onto the pages.

Dear Diary:

Life is so confusing. Sometimes I wonder if people are really happy or if they are just faking the funk and along for the ride. I feel so stupid with Ameen. . . like. . . like. . .I'm not good enough for him to treat me well and to love me right. I just want peace. I swear, I wish that Ameen could see that it's all about him. I wish I could see into the future, so I would know when this pain would be ending. Or better yet, I wish I had somebody to talk to. . . my friends are too opinionated and my mother. Paleeze.

Of course my mother was at work, Ever since my father died, finding other things to do besides staying home had been her answer to everything. And I guess I could understand it. I didn't like to stay home either. But still. . . I was there sometimes. And talking to her? Not. Every time I'd tried to talk to her, her answer to everything was,"Pray about it." Or "pray for him, pray for her, pray for it." So I just stopped asking her anything. And now when she asked me questions as if she was actually interested in my life, I simply said to her," I prayed about it already."

Anyway, today was typical, me in tears.

I held my diary to my chest, laid down with my face in the pillow, and cried. . .again.

Am hour later, I turned over on my side and my heart throbbed. Ciara's "Never ever" was playing, and as my mind absorbed each and every lyric I felt as if I had drowned in depression.

I reached over to my nightstand, flipped to another radio station. Beyonce was singing about being a boy. I promise you, I had gone insane.

I felt bad enough as it was. I didn't need the radio pouring salt in my wounds. The memory of what happened between me and Ameen played over and over again at least a thousand times in my head, each time with a different ending and a different way I should've said what I had to say.