#FreeWriteFriday: Rivers to the Atlantic

12:57 p.m.

I believe in my bones like I believe in the dirt on the ground.
I am able and solid and if you don’t take care of me,
I will wash away into the ocean and settle at the bottom.

I believe in the beauty of my body like a fairy tale,
collecting dust on the bookshelf of my childhood room
because who has the patience for lies with illustrations?

There is a pull like a black hole through my whole body
when I see you happy and never needing me, like I am
nothing but dirt you can’t get out from under your nails.

You laugh like sunlight in my eyes, you smile like you have
known me forever without ever learning my name,
and you miss me like you don’t.

My heart is warm and humming, beautiful and soft,
until that painful wave of not being the first choice
or the second best or even on the cutting room floor.

And all the 20-year-olds with no clue about what is is to live
are wringing out their hearts onto journal pages and wishing
to be his, her, their kind of pretty-funny-cute-perfect.

So I will stare out of windows and write in blood
and fall in love with every kind face I see.
I will keep myself from the bottom of the ocean.

1:26 p.m.

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