I don't know how t'talk to him, to anyone. I's guess I been too hurt by that bitch.

But that don't mean I's don' give a shit, a'ight? I know Art ain't my friend � he ain't, y'all � but I'm lookin' at him righ' now, an' I see me. Hopeless. Broken. Tired. Sad, an' older. I can see he's in pain, an' he's tryin' t'hold it in. An' I's ne'er real' liked him b'fore. I mean, I's didn' hate him or no shit, but he sure as hell weren't my favorite person neither. It bothered me (still kinda does) t'see BB n' them growin' so close to this guy. He's an Outsider, fuck off. Again, blame that fat bitch, if you's want.

I wonder if he looks at pictures of her and cries inside. Does he worry 'bout her, the way I's used to worry 'bout mine? Even tho' them two-bit whores don't deserve it? I's wanna tell him that it'll get better, but never good enough again. He'll move on, but won't f'rget. Some days he'll be on his porch, or workin' on his car, or maybe fuckin' some other girl, and he'll remember the exact scent of her hair, and he'll feel the silkiness of her tresses between his fingers. An' some days he'll even f'rget why it all fell apart in the firs' place, an' he'll ask himself what went wrong. Tell himself it can still work out, somehow, let me just start shit over again. Won't be too hard t'forgive, 'cause I've forgotten the worst of it already anyway.