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December 31, 2019 / barton smock

small note 2019

I see ghosts, but not first. I write, still, but more to forget what I wrote. I can’t seem to give separate lives to the not said and the unsaid. Alas, gone has a future. But, I am thankful. For those who had words for mine, for those who did not correct the words I had for theirs. For those who hated me in silence. Who loved me in my space. This will always be the year my grandmother died.

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