Sitting with the weight of a year passed, I bite into a peach, and as I trail the juice from my hand to my elbow, I try to ground myself. My hands are sticky, and I wipe them on my shirt, leaving a blotchy stain on my ribs.
Sitting with the weight of a year passed, I bite into a peach, and as I trail the juice from my hand to my elbow, I try to ground myself. My hands are sticky, and I wipe them on my shirt, leaving a blotchy stain on my ribs.
My Little Hawk 