My heart is full of pages of honest, bitter, questioning, painful words sentences poetry prose of things I have no right to say, no one to say to.
I understand your disdain, but I thought mutual respect was a given. This town, she's screaming at me to leave, and never come back.

My mom offered to fly me to my brother's for the rest of the summer, and God I wish I could. Maybe Beaverton wouldn't throw everything it has at me within a week.
Fairhope isn't my home. Next summer, I make my new home wherever I get an internship. Birmingham, Atlanta, Montgomery, Jacksonville, who knows. Symbolism has never been so prevalent in my life as it is now.