The next day I found another letter. This time it is in a purple envelope. I'm eager to read it. The suspense is frantically knocking at my door, begging me to let it in. I'm shaking like cold little puppy. Why am I so scared? I should be a hero. I should be brave. Whatever it may be, I hope it comes my way and hits me in the face rather than on the arm. I opened the envelope. I took the notebook paper trifold out and unfolded it. It read:
'I hate you.
You drive me crazy.
Your looks captivate me.
Your eyes have a story to tell,
Your personality brings me under your spell.
Ever so slightly,
Daily and nightly,
I think of you,
And I wish you would do the same too.'
So apparently I drive someone crazy, they like the way I look, they like my personality, and they wish I would think of them too. Wow. I have my own personal stalker. How thrilling! I should be someone's personal stalker. Maybe I could stalk S. P. Whitman. She would probably hate me for doing that though. I dispose the idea because the thought of S. P. hating me, kills me.
*image is very irrelevant but it's what Ben feels.
YOU ARE READING
The Leftovers
أدب المراهقينI had become a leftover. I am nothing more than a plate of food he forgets about, And soon he will dispose of me. He comes to me when he is hungry for love, I feed him hoping he'll stay, But he leaves. Because that's all I am to him, Just a leftover.
