Writing

Hey, Mr. P,

I saw a paper airplane 
and remembered you.
It's been too long — 
my paper world rips;
these hands are painted with cuts.

Every Halloween, one house on your street stays dark; no lights, no candy, no decorations. The neighborhood kids whisper about it, daring each other to knock, but no one ever does.

With her cheek pressed against the window of the car, hurtling down a freeway to god knew where, she watched with tired eyes and a heavy soul as the scenery flew by.

i found a binder full of photos from my preschool years,

lined paper covered in neat cursive

signed by my teachers, women who i remember the names of

and not much else. their voices were warm and the house

i still hold you in my heart, 

where it's safe, 

and you have your place, 

but every once and a while, 

i feel you come out, 

We sit alone together 

Pretending to be something we wish we were

Not liking the something we are

Because, maybe pretending to be something  we're not

Will fix all our issues