April 17, 1998

Today, my last class was gym. The guidance counselor was there, Mr. Shaw. Maggie and I were hanging out and talking instead of playing the game, and Mr. Shaw said, "So you guys aren't really participating that much in the game, are you?"

When Mr. Shaw was out of hearing range, Zach mumbled, "That's because the game sucks, because Emily's playing and Emily sucks." I turned around to face him and said, "Shut up, Stupid!" And I pushed him away from me.

He yelled, "That fucking hurt! You ho! Now I'll just get all the people who are going to beat you up already to beat your up even harder!" In the locker room, Emma told me that he had asked her to beat me up, but that she wasn't going to. [Gee, thanks, Emma.]

[Time for some more poetry. You've been warned.]

Why should I care, or want to live?

There's nothing more for me to give.

I'm only bringing others pain

And to myself I do the same.

There's no excuse or reason why

I should not end it all, and die.

Something sharp. A little slit.

And that would be the end of it.

The blood is trickling, pouring through

And all my troubles leave me, too.

Form a pool upon the floor,

Not inside me anymore.

And then I see my mother's face,

The tears that seem so out of place.

Why does she look so awfully sad?

What have I done that is so bad?

The blood is mixing with the tears,

Revealing all my deepest fears.

And with the setting of the sun,

I think, too late: What have I done?