he loved me. i knew it. i didn't love him back. i asked, he drove. weeks later, he got arrested getting high behind the ice rink. he blamed the boy i did love, not me. i've never stopped feeling guilty.
I'm a cook. And I write, sometimes about food, mostly poems. I make stuff. I get lost. I'm worried about vanishing bees, melting icecaps, the decrease of civility in the world, seedless watermelons, and whether there will be enough time for me to get it all right.
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