Simone

When I was 13, I had a notebook. On the front cover, I wrote “THIS IS A NOTEBOOK”—I thought it was very ironic. I wrote a poem in the notebook. It went like this:

The way he laughs, his crooked teeth. I love him but he doesn’t love me.
His Franco smile, he’s such a bad liar; he can’t admit the truth.
He loves her, without a clue.
His Khaki pants, his tacky jokes, he’s quite a caring little bloke.
He cares about me, but only a bit. With her, it’s different.
She always has him, he’s nice and he’s kind. So hard to find.
He doesn’t see it, neither does she. “We’re just friends,” that’s what he says.
I know how I feel. I know this won’t change.
Maybe he is just a name, a face, a person, someone strange.
We will never happen, and I’m not ashamed.
After all, there’s always James.

When I wrote this poem, I loved one boy a lot. It’s likely that the only person I’ve loved more than this boy was James Franco himself.

I don’t love this boy anymore. I don’t think I love any boy anymore. But I’m still very jealous. I still feel uniquely alone. ♦