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by Jennifer Rust

I ripped it

From the core of existence.

I flushed down the river.

I stomped it

cold on the ground.

Let me breath, I tell him.

He doesn’t listen.

He never


“I’d rather break my bones

Than stare at you again...”

That’s what I tell him.

But he doesn’t understand that

There’s a whole hole in my chest

Three feet deep and the circumference

Of my hand.

I let the wind catch breeze in there.

I let water drip until stalagmites and stalactites form like crocodile teeth.

He doesn’t understand the holes on my wrists when I try to reach in

Even after knowing how empty it is.

He’ll never understand these bugs in stomach

They dug tunnels in the lining when I looked too long

When I wanted to know how it felt

To just hold his hand.

He’ll never know how he punctured my body,

Deflated my lungs

Shot through

Like gun bullets

My sour acid pouring out the holes.

No wonder why you won’t look back,

I’m hideous now.

Jennifer Rust is a young writer from Delaware and has obsessed with storytelling since she was a child. She tries to learn many different forms of writing and has tried screenplays, stage plays, poetry, short stories, and essays. In 2018, she became a National Youngarts merit winner in writing. When she is not writing she is drawing or consuming someone else's writing. Currently Jennifer is going to Columbia College Chicago for creative writing.

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December 2018

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