dear oliver,
“who are you?” his
voice was dark, ruffled
by his mustache.
“are you kidding me?”
oliver wheezed as he
clutched the phone.
“who the hell are you?”
the man pressured and
looked over oliver’s
head to stare into mine.
“i’m quinn.” i whispered.
it seemed like i was face
to face with the devil.
“and you?” he roughly
nodded to oliver.
“i’m your dying son,
you idiot.” oliver
got up and flung the
phone at the glass
window.
he grabbed my hand
to balance himself as
he turned back to stare
at an older version of
him. a living one.
“you know, mom
was right. she said
right before you
left that you’d end
up in prison. why?
because people
like you are not
meant to be seen.”
quinn
YOU ARE READING
zero
PoetryQuinn scribbles tainted emotions across thin layers of white paper. But to who? To someone who blinks once, sees her, and blinks again-just to make her disappear. To someone who sees her as a symbol of the ocean. To someone who thinks the ocean is...
