Big Talk, Little Town I.

The Aftermath of New York: Always Before the Storm

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By the time I was five,

my nose had become akin to the smell of damp dirt and diesel fuel

and my eyes to mud tracked hallways and a sea of blonde heads and dull, grey eyes

By the time I was seven,

they realized mine were hazel-brown,

and that my daddy came from the city rather than a small town

so his shoes were always clean

By the time I was twelve,

the rat-faced boys learned hit heads on the field

but I was the one running the yards to escape

like white-tailed deer

praying not to end up a summertime meal to somebody with a camouflage smile

By the time I was fourteen,

I ran out of breath

and put my hands around the throats of the hicks who called my old Cadillac too clean

before realizing if I choked them it made me just as blind

By the time I was sixteen,

I was long gone

and knew there was more to people than just the dirt on the

soles of their shoes

so whenever I return to the town

where they spit on my black boots,

I let them.

4/18/17

Author: Lannah Mary

An overly-friendly environmental activist, singer, and self-taught writer.

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