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Sometimes, I look down at how long my hair is - run my fingers through it to the very ends - and wonder how long it's been with me. How many years of life brush my shoulders every day? How many tears have rolled down these strands? How many times have I anxiously twirled my fingers around these locks in anticipation of seeing someone I loved? Perhaps my soul is far too sentimental but I guess I wouldn't have it any other way.
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She stood at the window
And watched the rain
And wondered if she’d ever
Feel whole again.
With each drop that fell
A tear followed suit
She was an angel
But he was a brute.
There was no time to think
No time to ask “Why”
She stepped on the window
And learned how to fly.

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Jordyn Mart

August 2017

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