“I just want to feel
pretty,” she says through her tears.
She already is.
Deciding not to go to Junior Prom
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“I just want to feel
pretty,” she says through her tears.
She already is.
You ask, I answer.
Opinions fly. No right, wrong.
It’s all subjective.
Trying to make work
indulgent, a nine-to-five
wage slave’s fantasy.
Lulled by summer’s false
start, forty degrees reminds
us that April lies.
Rubik’s cube of words
adjectives nouns verbs form a
perfect turn of phrase.
Like eyes heavy with
grief, grey clouds spill a steady
patter of sorrow.
Pulling apart a
life together, the future
frays like a cut edge.
It happens over
coffee, one stunned, the other
already elsewhere.
She woke up seeing
him in a different light
flame sputtering out.
“There’s always rain at
the most appropriate times
in my life,” he wrote.