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Walked into the gas station as a police officer walked out with a mask on. Kindly following the laws in today’s 2020 I put mine on also. Walked up to the counter to pay for my drink I then asked the young female cashier, “so answer me this, how do you know who’s the bad guy in this story”?

- Wake the fuck up America!

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Wrote something after a while. Temme whatchu think!

“I have given up.

On this summer languor- this doleful heat.

I have become one of the jaded-

With fevered metal heads.

Marionettes trudging in grand, righteous masque-

Clutching raw throats- blood eyed wraiths above deterrent guise. All-

Dilute tongues and unscented incense-prayers;

Chilblain blue toes and purpled lace thighs.

Florid saprophytes; rooting on sunken palms.

A gentle, stretchable crown;

An impalpable snake throttling neck.

Iron fisted mallets battering against skull and sternum:

Gormless pain turns visceral.

Cochineal clusters settled on lung

Sliced open- suppurating alveoli stop ticking; detonate-

Into bloodbursts. Body verges war on self:

A nuclear winter arrives.” - L

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Bleeding Colours

image

My idea of a good school morning was being able to sleep in just a tiny bit (any day with classes beginning after 10:00 AM was a good day), feeling uplifted enough to not need to check my phone immediately after I woke up.

Rolling over in bed to notice it’s raining lightly outside (Texas rain; rain that looks and feels like mist that’s accidentally condensed), sitting up and stretching—leaping out as I noticed my dad’s heavy footsteps coming to knock on my bedroom door again, this time a little more exasperated than the last.

To me, a good school morning was sprinting on light footsteps (our floorboards creaked) into the bathroom, returning to turn off my six different alarms, picking out an outfit warm enough for whatever random weather San Antonio was feeling today (she’s moody, guys). Checking my hair in the mirror (who brushes?), grabbing my ID and backpack, making my way downstairs to chilled milk and cereal with honey drizzled on top.

It was getting into the passenger side and chatting casually about coursework with Baba, resting my head on the cool windowpane.

My idea of the perfect kind of afternoon solace was lunch alone sitting in a little study cubicle outside my calculus classroom in the Humanities building, checking my email on my phone or calling my best friend who lives fourteen thousand miles away to complain about eating alone (only three exceptions so far), but secretly enjoying the snatches of fascinating discussions from the women’s studies classroom opposite, and the faint voice of my elderly calculus professor, talking about partial derivatives and linear approximation and what have you.

My most productive evenings were in the school library, alone at a desktop (it’s what you do when you have a sucky laptop), sipping searing hot coffee that smelled like vanilla and hazelnut. Clicking through readings, slides, code compilers, notes, the din of fifty other students a familiar, comforting noise, slightly drowned out by the gentle ambient noise I’m playing on my earbuds.

Driving home, watching the sun set in dazzling colours bleeding into each other, bright headlights and a clearing sky.

My average day was lonely, imperfect, frustrating. But it was mine.

Now it’s gone.

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