Nonfiction

This country is still here

In some aspects we’ve changed

The rain fell in steady sheets onto the sidewalk, and I shivered. Next to me, my friend Chloe glanced at her watch.

“Four minutes until they let us in.” she rubbed her arms. “It's really cold.”

Imagine a friend who’ll never let go

A friend who’ll never give up

Imagine a friend who is life itself

A friend with the smile brighter than the sun

Closer than a brother

I imagine a friend

I look at my teenage years

I see the pain, I see my fears

I’m still young but I desire that faith

I believe and know I’ll be ok

I fell in a pit

A hole so deep

I couldn’t save me using my wit

Home is where you dream. Where your ideas come to life. A rhythm of thoughts making themselves known, untangled. 

Home. We’re home. I didn’t need to open my eyes. I knew we were home. I knew we were getting close. I had memorized the roads leading from the highway back to the house nestled in the little neighborhood I called home.

There we stood, my brother and I, on the mighty cliffs of Stop & Shop, staring down upon our vast kingdom that was Route 7 and the subjects of the parking lot.

Despite some recipes that require arms and a torso mine just requires the fuzzy feeling that appears when you’re around the people you love.

   First, be close to someone you love.

It was around Nine O Clock at night and I was sitting around until I heard my house phone ringing. I was getting up and the phone rang, I left the room I was in and the phone rang.

Growing up when I was younger, I was raised in a very homophobic, transphobic family. I was taught that being anywhere on the LGBTQ spectrum was evil and would send you to hell.

To L.M.

There is a man on the corner of 87th and Amsterdam. I do not know him, and he does not know me. He wears a red tee-shirt with red sweatpants. He wears a red coat with red shoes. He wears a red ski mask on his face.