emmar
I stand, shaking, and cup the microphone. Nothing is said, and as I cry people make murmuring noises and touch their hearts. "Poor girl," they think. I don't care what they think.
Turned around and caught him. Hoped that they were prescribed, but when I tripped and fell into him later, we both stumbled. "Sorry," he said, "I'm high."
Mr. Koop told the boys to leave, and I smiled. His favoritism and sexism was the best part of photography. I stood, in braids, by the projector, and he rested his hand on my shoulder for a few seconds too long.
They were there in photographs and grainy home videos. After the deaths I regretted so many sullen and separated years.
Math class in 6th grade will always be made a mockery of. My teacher couldn't speak english well, we talked in slang and she couldn't understand us. Then we would laugh.
Fiery eyes peek from the corner of the basement, but I'm not scared. Never was.
Sliver, heavy string hangs in the trees, and I all I can think of is "storyteller."
Could it be a sport to bully? My grandmother clucked and baked cookies and worried about climbing trees while saying I was jokingly made a sport of.
After that night I couldn't see you anymore.
I've always wished to be a journalist.
It's dead. And I will never get to see my name on the newsstands, because there are none.
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writing since 2011 · 13 entries · 12 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Emma showed up.
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12days written
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the words Emma reaches for
eyesopeningblearycriedbirdredbluewakingsmellsmokesporttreesforgetstupidmakingfriendships