M. Hank

Love is a paradoxical thing. 

I want desperately to be loved. 

I want to wake up to a "good morning, my favorite person" text. 

I want the last thing I see at night to be a little red heart emoji. 

I want to tell you  I love you 

I love you and your smiles

Your voice even though I’m still learning your language

The way your hands hold things 

A basketball 

Your sisters hand 

When Jennifer thinks about the idea of home, it's more than the idea of physical space. Home is her shelter; she feels safe, protected, and it's kind of like a utopia where she can do anything without judgment (obviously not crimes).

Once, there was a little girl.

She was around 7 years old at the time,

and lived with her mother and father

in a little red house, in a little green forest.

They made chicken soup on their little stove 

when were you going to tell me

that we were never really friends?

and instead you pretended you liked me

so you could laugh at my tear-stricken face.

all those nights I opened up like you cared

Dear, that fifteen minutes, a week

less than.

all it took for you to worm your way in. 

A day. A moment. A lifetime crammed between seconds.

a bond that is a force to be reckoned with.