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The Bad Feels So Bad Makes The Good So Goodeleven o’clock on a Monday night isn’t a time you’d want a child to be awake, unless it was a special occasion, we’re talking an eight-year-old on the sidewalk, but this is the U.S. zip code with the highest rate of child poverty, and I can’t tell from my car if I know this little boy, but heartbreak doesn’t need to be on a firstname basis. she holds my hand as we walk over
to her computer station. she’s learned how to type her name, address, and age in about 30 minutes of practice. two months ago, she couldn’t read. not even “a” or “the”. dedication is a two-way street. I’m just glad I get paid to drive on it. my own childhood was a series of doors: front doors, car doors, doors closing, fewer opening. this isn’t enough detail for you: divorce tasted like the witch’s apple from Snow White. I was saved in the end, but the emotional slumber lasted years. and can’t no one help but pity a joyless fourth grader. my friends’ families cradled love like a newborn. ate at restaurants, went to the movies. but under the surface, their parents cheated, drank, smoked. mine compromised and compromised until they became the same person, and painted the perfect picture of marriage, even if it was my mom’s second. second chances are butterflies. CommentsComments are closed.
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