"When I was three years old I was burned by the wood heater at my grandparents house. I don't remember the incident but my body does. On my hand is the smallest brown dot that you wouldn't notice if I didn't tell you too. My family tells me that I cried and cried and cried, but for the life of me I can't remember that day. Sometimes I look at my hand and wonder how it felt but then I think that maybe I was blessed, to forget something that obviously caused me so much pain. Isn't it crazy that we can be broken before we even now what that means?"
YOU ARE READING
Excerpts From The Book I'll Never Write
PoetrySomething I had to write in order to feel again.
