Victoria Byle
Free Writing
I
hate this place—
this
school, this town.
I’m
bored.
My
family?
Please!
I’m
bored.
“Why
don’t you get a hobby?”
croaks
my grandma,
sticking
into a stupid album
some
old photographs,
curled
and yellow and cracking,
like
Grandma.
I’m
bored.
A text!
I
check.
It’s
Ursula.
She’s
bored.
My
thumbs dance:
me 2
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