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8th Grade English, 3rd Period

There are poems scratching at the back of my throat.
I write them in a notebook using a purple pen
that smells ever so slightly of bubble gum.

The poems speak of love and lust, and fear and fear and fear.
I am positive when I hear you whisper my name
the fear will slow, the shaking stop and the lust will thaw into trust.

Today I open the notebook and confront how little has changed.

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