I Hold

You are like a magnet on a fridge. You are latched onto my memories. Once in a while, I stare at you. I notice you. But most of the times, I don’t. But you are there—removable, but holding still, resisting gravity, paused when the rest of me rides on. You hold a piece of photograph that smells like a rugged old book from a used bookstore. You exist. You are a nostalgia. And that’s ok. But I, I hold rays of sunrises to come.

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A Crow’s Foot

One alphabet at a time, my ballpoint pen spits out words on a page. I press on the plastic pen like I can break glass with my finger tips. Through the grip echoes my muscle, moving the piercing edge of the ink. With a roll, the black ink oozes out, leaving scars against the paper and through the pages; bold, rugged, and messy. I write words that scream. Words that are poisonous and ugly. Filthy and unforgiven. My hand loses concentration. The pen drops. Though the grip remains. My hand pauses still in the shape of a crow’s foot. If my arms had wings, they’d flown away. So I’d never had to write.