Towards the end of class I started to write. I thought of her and I wrote. I couldn't help myself even if I tried and... I tried.
People watcher.
That's what they call me,
a people watcher
But all I did was watch her.
S. P. gasped. "You write for fun?"
"Yes..."
S. P. took out a nice looking notebook. Flipped a few pages and pointed to a poem. Her handwriting was sloppy and I was too lazy to read it so I don't know what it said.
"You write?" I was astonished. I didn't think someone as pretty as her picked up a pencil and writes. Writing is for losers. She's not someone I'd diagnose as a loser.
"Yes. "
YOU ARE READING
The Leftovers
Teen FictionI 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.
