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Jul 2017
You promised.

You swore.

You said you would.

We drank a little whiskey and I smiled at your goofy grin. I laughed when you bet me a stop sign that I would get sick on my 21st. Little did you know, I can handle my liquorย ย magnificently. We put some music on and swung-out to that 40s rhythm.

You promised you loved me.

You swore you would never leave.

You said you would always hold my hand.

I turned 21 last week and I sat in my cold apartment, alone. I did not drink, I did not smile, I did not laugh, I did not dance. Instead tears burned through my cheeks like acid rain. Instead my nose leaked into countless tissues. Instead I ignored my world.

The promises are broken.

Swearing is just curse words, now.

My hand is empty.

I turned 21 last week. I did not get sick. Now, all I can think is

Where the hell is my stop sign?

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