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h.roark

If you don't learn to write your own story, someone else will write it for you

5 poems·Since April 2016
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Change

April 19, 2016

His touch wasn't kind, and so neither is her heart. She doesn't have a curved, easy smile. It's as sharp as the knifed that stabbed her in the back millions of times before. Her laughter is no longer loud and full, but more of a whimper, much like the sound she made each time his hands found her. People say change is good. She's proof that it isn't. 

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