My fists clenched on Sunday morning and they have not let up. I wouldn't mind so much, but clenching fists can be draining.
I told him I was 21 but he looked at me in hateful sympathy, "yeah right, get outta my sight." I was smooth like a bullet with all the edges trimmed down. Maybe he could smell my guileless guilt, or maybe it was the word "bong" spelled backwards for a mirror's lens on my right cheek in 4 different colors. Either way I had only moments to prepare as a stomach with 80 ounces seeped me into callousness. There was no way I could have known they would bring the dogs in. Not at that blurry moment.
I walked my bike down the road without thoughts to collect. Shoeless and abstract, I began to wonder where I could go. The town was on fire but the thought of friends in handcuffs repeated
(to be continued)
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