Like me, Luke was eighteen. Like me, Luke played guitar. Like me, Luke wrote bad poetry. But unlike me, Luke was serving time in a correctional facility.
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We fucked up Jason’s roommate, Jeremy. Truck was totally sick of that pussy’s mouth and he wrapped a bath towel over his face and punched him until the towel was red.
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My friend whose mom died shows me his room. He shows me a lighter. He shows me a knife. He shows me a fake hand he keeps in his closet. My friend whose mom died, he shows me a grenade.
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Back when Blockbusters were three times as large, you could wander the whole store, from “New Releases” to “Horror” to “Action,” and every movie seemed to be a potential “best movie ever” candidate.
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I never had felt any particular fondness for the boy. Only a sort of morbid curiosity on account of the way he looked. His deformity that is.
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Dolan preaches a devil’s sermon. This starved man. This bone cage for black heart. Thirteen searchers circle him in the blizzard’s aftermath. Half his congregation is snowblind, pupils glare-blown wide.
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When I dream of the floods, we are sinking. We’re sinking because my tiny arms can’t carry your fat little body. If it weren’t for how short your limbs are, we’d be the same size. Those hams keep weighing us down.
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My son came into my office and handed me the assignment from his second grade teacher, written on a half-sheet. He was wearing sweatpants and had his t-shirt on his head, draped back over his shoulders, so that he looked vaguely like a pharaoh.
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I grew up a few blocks away from the entrance to the Rikers Island Bridge. Our house was unidentifiable, somewhere in the middle of a long line of uninterrupted, attached brick houses.
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It’s taken two years of being “normal” to return to the VA Medical Center. “Normal” is what the psychotherapist told me. One year out of the military, inactive, and treatment felt like a healthy choice. Two years later, it feels like a necessity.
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