Broken Heart

Your tears, lonely girl, are heart-shaped. Picture perfect and smooth-edged, just like the ones you doodled all over the brown paper bag bookcover that protects your World Cultures textbook. The same doodled hearts that are now streaks of pink and red and purple, the color of the markers you bought just for that purpose. Streaks because you’ve had your face down on this book all afternoon. Your crying, sobbing face, wet with eye, nose, and mouth juice. You don’t yet know there are reverse pink, red, and purple hearts on your cheek, pressed there like lick-on/stick-on tattoos. You can’t face yourself in the mirror now. Not now. Not now when you know you’re ugly because you’re crying (why can’t you cry pretty like the girls on TV?) and ugly anyway, so ugly, which is why you’re alone today and not with him.
Cry heart-shaped tears, young lady, even though there’s no chance he’ll see and feel bad for being the reason you’re crying. And even if there were a chance (and there’s not!), he wouldn’t notice anyway, because he never got close enough to your face or your eyes to be able to make out the shape (or to make out at all) anyway. He wouldn’t notice your tears are special tears, just for him. He does not even know you exist.
And why should he? He’s famous and has his own sitcom. And his pretty co-star? Well, she cries pretty.
Better luck next year. Chin (heart-shaped!) up!