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August 5 - August 16, 2018
Feeling sorry for myself was an art. I think a part of me liked doing that.
I got to thinking that poems were like people. Some people you got right off the bat. Some people you just didn’t get—and never would get.
The summer sun was not meant for boys like me. Boys like me belonged to the rain.
To be careful with people and with words was a rare and beautiful thing.
