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Poem #2

With so much time on my hands these days, I reflect a lot. A year ago, I met a young girl who was on the verge of tears every time I saw her. She suffered from intense anxiety, but made herself come to the summer camp where I worked every day for two weeks because she loved writing so much. She was, and continues to be, an inspiration.

lowercased for little b

she only wrote fanfiction, a trembling teacup piglet.

her voice was a quarter on the train tracks; when asked about herself, she slammed the lid on anyone brave enough to peek inside her Pandora’s box

and would look down horn- rimmed frames, sea glass eyes bottling iridescent bulbs for another inky night of furious scribbling, trying to write herself into a different world, breaking free of Anxiety, her midday lies of humanity.

she’d feel brave, just for a second.

when she told me about repentant evil, her hands didn’t shake, she didn’t pick at bloody flesh craters, she didn’t look away.

she’d meet my eyes and mean every word.


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