Stepping Stones

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He liked to chew bubblegum, kept it underneath his tongue, he said it made him feel grounded. More in control. Scrunched up poetry in messy handwriting strewn across pages in white he would hold them in his palm before it melted into a fist and it was almost like the words were written to be washed away. Continue reading

I Built A Home Between Airplane Rides Across The World

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By the age of thirteen I had been in six different schools, staying in each for up to three years at the most. It wasn’t because I was bullied or because I couldn’t make any friends but it was rather because my family just moved around a lot. Along with every school that changed so did the house we lived in and the street I had grown familiar to or the neighbors that were always nice. Continue reading

My Eighth Grade French Teacher

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My eighth grade French teacher smoked cigarettes out back near the football field every morning. Heaving in heavy breaths he’d cough like his throat was on fire, fumes in his lungs. He drank like the skies inside his eyes had fallen, clouds of silver smoke on his lashes would linger until they looked more like fragile tears wiped by trembling thumbs before brought into account by the twenty students who wanted more than anything to leave the classroom they were stuck in.

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I’ll Sleep On The Floor

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I said I’ll sleep on the floor tonight. With Bon Iver playing from the vinyl on the top of your bookshelf. I turn my head to face the mason jar filled with “reasons to live” I scribbled with my trembling left hand at four in the morning when I thought I’d lost you to the flame colored crimson blood on your arms. And I told you I’d write you a song, a poem hell I’d even write a book for you but you didn’t need my words you needed so much more.

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