The door to my cabin this year didn't close on its own.
I'd have to pull it shut
Or else the bugs would get in.
But they got in anyway.
The flies would swarm around our fluorescent lights
But they weren't the only thing filling out cabin.
Laughter poured out from the windows
Almost as contagious as camp crud
And more powerful then our voices at lunch.
By the end of camp
We had enough inside jokes to fill a novel
And then some.
Laughter turned to tears on closing day
When we'd all depart for our own homes.
Phone numbers exchanged
And hugs passed around like party favors.
Our final jokes
And our goodbyes.
YOU ARE READING
Art Will Survive, Artists Won't
PuisiThis book is a compilation of free-form poetry that I've written. Most of it is pretty personal, but I hope you'll like it regardless. POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: depression, self-harm, lgbtq+, suicidal thoughts
