Writing

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).

Derek yelped when the school bell sharply dinged, a harsh reminder of the class he was dreading. He tucked his phone into the top drawer of the highly graffiti-ed desk to remain hidden for the rest of the lesson.

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 

One summer, when I was about five years old, I abruptly glanced upon the vast sea with new eyes, ones that saw the water that I used to love so dearly in a petrifying new light.