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Six examples of wood-pulp and ink detritus found crumpled at the bottom of a typical schoolboy's backpack, circa late 20th century:

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I carved your name into the desk I sit at in Spanish class. Tiny marks on the edge that faces me, and away from everyone else. Every day, a little deeper.

The same black pen wrote your name on my skin -- on my wrist, on my knee, on the pad of my thumb and the curve of my foot. Four block letters, simple, direct.

It isn't just your name I want on my skin.

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milk
bread
cigarettes
peanut butter
ziplocs
pop
ball-point pens
film

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turn around
turn around
turn around turn around turn around
TURN AROUND

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I'm thinking about getting my hair cut like yours.
I'm thinking about getting a girlfriend like yours.
I'm thinking about taking your picture.
I'm thinking about telling you why.

Fuck. I am never going to tell him why.

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Hey. Do you have any idea what's going on in this class?

Yeah. Covalent bonding and shit. You want to borrow my notes?

Yeah, man, that would be awesome.

Okay. Come by my locker after school, I guess? #0224, Social Studies wing. You were really Good game last Friday, by the way.

Hey, thanks! And yeah, see you there.

Yeah, see you.

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YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES

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