More than I have tears to cry, I miss her. I’d been scamming food, she’d been shooting up. You want a cinquain poem about a most embarrassing moment that actually happened to me? Okay, here you go: Like I can even remember ever being in a real restaurant. “Put your most embarrassing experience in the form of a cinquain poem.” What did you expect me to do? Write the truth? I knew you’d read them out loud and you did! How do you spell idiot? I spell it L-E-O-N-E.ĭid you like my little poem about spilling my milk in a restaurant? Stupid, I know, so give me an F, see if I care. Leone, but face it: You don’t know squat. You think writing will get me out of here? You think words will make me forget about the past? Get real, Ms. Well, I’m trying it, see? And is it making me feel better? NO! Giving me this journal was a totally lame thing to do. You think you know what I’m going through, you think you know how I can “cope,” but you’re just like everybody else: clueless. I’m trapped in here, trying to sleep under this sorry excuse for a blanket, and I’ve just got to tell you-you don’t know squat.
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