A scrap of writing

This week, I'm reorganizing my files. I found this scrap of writing, probably from over 25 years ago:

He sits across the room, staring at me. If he smiles, I will be happy for the rest of the day. All he needs to do is smile and I will fantasize about the family we will raise and the dates he will take me out on. He's never spoken to me since the fourth grade, but the torch was burning hot, even then.

When your heart's on your sleeve it's dangerous; it's a target to the cruel and vicious girls with deadly aimed words and trick. I don't remember why I cried every day anymore, only that I did it. Barry, never in your wildest dreams will you ever come close to what it would have been like. Even though I'm light years from Annandale and tornadoes,  I haven't laid you to rest. There will always be some fucking spark. I gave you a piece of me you you didn't even want it. But you took it anyway.

I don't know if I will ever attempt to write or be a writer, but it's nice to see a hint of talent buried in me. And for the record, I've reclaimed all these pieces of myself that I gave away wantonly with no forethought to all those boys and men who didn't deserve it.