dear oliver,
i’m going to rose’s house
for the weekend. she invited
me over for a sleepover. my
parents were finally happy that
i was leaving the house, “getting
out of our hair,” as they said.
i’ll write more to you once
i come home. i don’t want your
name anywhere near her house.
quinn
YOU ARE READING
zero
PoetryQuinn scribbles tainted emotions across thin layers of white paper. But to who? To someone who blinks once, sees her, and blinks again-just to make her disappear. To someone who sees her as a symbol of the ocean. To someone who thinks the ocean is...
