I feel like a shattered stained glass window.

The summers of my childhood meant dirty feet from playing ball without shoes, calloused hands from one too many rounds of the monkey bars, and racing to eat popsicles before the humidity melted their contents away. I was a good kid, but also a curious one. 

On November 8th, 2016

(“a date which will live in infamy”)

I sat like a child on my bed

I had always thought myself an artist,

So I took a pen and drew a map — 

Every line

Of every state

I drew my home

Oh, how I loved “the talk” in eighth grade. The smell of Axe filled the room and I heard my peers giggling. A boy dressed in bright yellow Nike said, “I heard they tell us about popping cherries” 

 “Yeah I heard there’s blood everywhere!”