ISLAND INK A JOURNAL OF LITERATURE & ART UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN MAINE
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Anonymous
All my life I’ve longed for anything other
than screaming
hitting
gunshots outside the window.
I prayed in cold basements
hot closets
numb in my babysitter’s bed.
Yet the first person to pat my shoulder
and wish me well
left with bruised fingersÂ
and ringing ears.