Nothing I wrote was ever worth writing.
Accept, maybe, your name. Which I doodled on everything I found, back of newspapers, napkins at Taco Bell. Combined with my own, pretended it was mine.
Or maybe that L-word I scribbled on a paper airplane and sailed over the cubicle.
Perhaps the notes I snuck in your textbooks to brighten your nights.
Or the words and pictures I drew on dew of your silver truck’s windows, hearts and dicks and smiley faces.
Maybe your favorite kind of tea on my shopping list.
But not all the shit in my journals, the haiku I spewed all over my blog, not diary entries or even the garbage I tried to submit to literary magazines.
And especially not “Let’s just be friends.”
Nothing I write will ever be worth writing.
Now that you jumped.