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Jun 2017
I wish that I could
once again see
through the eyes of a child.

Where pillows are clouds
soaring high through the sky,
elevated above the rest of humanity
and suspends throughout positivity.

Where the wind sounds like wolves
howling into the dark night,
heads tipped back while they cry to the moon.

Where everything is innocent
and the only thing that you needed
to worry about was whether or not you'd be invited to your friend's birthday party.

You always are.
Parents like to make things fair.

Where the barcodes on food packages
are not just the key to counting your ribs each morning
in hopes of weighing less than your bones.

Where the American dream is more than being
the skeletal version of yourself,
more than hunching over a porcelain sink each morning
with your heart in your hands
and your tears making tracks to the emptied cage that contained the battered thing.

Where you fear the darkness
because of the boogeyman or the monsters in your closet
rather than the ones that walk
alongside you on the streets
or even the ones that haunt you
every time you close your eyes.
Written by
Bret  20/F
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