She existed in the creases of his hands; like tiny shards of glass She filled the space.
I'm in the kitchen painting peaches with juices dripping down my chin.
This business of grief
The boy who hides won't find comfort in the silence of his head.
Doe, do something only I could understand, walk in the middle of the road with your eyes closed.
I turn to respond only to be greeted by the soft caressing scent of a pine fire
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I hope as you read this you to feel the weight of what I speak and know that there is a need for your words and stories. I need them. You need them. And someone you have never met needs them the most.
I knew the way to his dad’s headstone as though it were my own father—wish that bastard was dead instead of just gone, but luck falls on the beautiful not the brave.
But the possibilities of a dead thing are endless in the minds of teens.