Writing

vermont is a half-finished poem with all the lines scratched out. 

grandfathers who’ve lived here their whole lives still talk of leaving, 

it is november now which is unbelievable

because last night we got blisters on our feet running

house to house in too-small rainboots, our wings

flapping lopsidedly behind us. it rained on and off

Am I doing this right? 
Is there some rule book for college that my mom never made me read?

Was it lost in translation because I was never popular? 
Or maybe because my parents had stricter rules?

MY HEART IS ONLY ABOUT THE SIZE OF MY FIST. I HAVE WEAK ARMS, SO MY FISTS DON'T HIT VERY HARD. MY HEART IS DIFFERENT IN THIS REGARD.

You should stop yelling

The clutter; I’m broken wings

Is peace just that hard?

When I first got switched on, I became the world’s first half-human, half-robot teacher. My mind stretched into every database of human knowledge. I could teach anything.