Once, my hands strummed its strings
Every chord a different melody
Each one like a pulse of a heartbeat in metal
Guitar is my first love
Its strings the hands I hold
Its songs effortlessly entrusting...
Abbey Black, Literary Magazine Design Editor
• May 6, 2014
couch
not seat
but a desert, an assemblage
of dog hair & chips from last week
an escape, a shield
that postpones exploring and adventure
cushions that consume you
making you stay
forever
bread
not...
These past few months, I’ve been impatiently counting down the days I have left in this school. With each passing day, I grow more tired of the monotonous drone of classes;...