Nonfiction

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.

When I was a kid, I had a near perfect childhood. I had friends on the same street as me, and we rode our bikes around the neighborhood playing cops and robbers.

It’s late August, and Mom packs us all up in the minivan and we set off for the beautiful, scenic drive to Alexanders Wild Blueberry Farm. For me, this is one of my favorite days of summer.