I thought about writing her a poem. Maybe I could write about how she makes me feel (my stomach twists tight, my palms sweat). She thinks we are friends, more than friends. I write nicknames for her in the back of my notebook: bitch, whore, psychopath. When the bell rings and the clock’s hands clap at the peak of noon, I rip out the piece of paper. She tends to check my notes yet we have no...
It Is What It Is, Until Someone Else Does It
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