You could be faulted for the impulse to burn in a wood stove your casual witnessing— small white book with your scribbles inside, feelings of meaning. Five years worth of words on thin lines under lock and key— teenage traumas, a passion here, an anger there, cursive straining for value between the lines together with a smallpox scab crisscross taped on a page, a few dog-ears, erasures, blackened sentences and finger smears. Just a kid trying to curve and punctuate identity— too much here, too little there, embarrassment for the ages. Weighed and found wanting you toss it in, owning […]
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