dear oliver,
remember when, “why do
you hate yourself so much?”
your voice cracked as we
sat down on the swings.
it was raining, but we didn’t
care.
if we got sick, at least
we’d be able to miss school.
the idea of missing school
always excites the minds
of nine year olds. how
rebellious we are, hm?
“i don’t know.”
“how can you not know?”
“there is just this feeling, oliver.
that makes me want to hate myself.”
“well, i think that feeling is
stupid.”
“me too.”
“you’re not stupid though.”
“thanks.”
“yeah.”
“so...”
“that kid over there
looks funny.”
“you look funny.”
quinn
p.s. you still do.
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...
