Eyes On The Forest, Not On The

I Look Down At Our Linked Fingers As I Loosen My Grasp, But He Regains His Grip On Me. “no, Don’t Let Go Of Me,” He Says.

Most Rats Read. Our Frustration Is, We Cannot Hold A Pen To Write.

We're Supposed To Be Making Up This Stuff, Playing At Being In Love, Not Actually Being In Love.

That It's No Good Loving Me Because I'm Never Going To Get Married Anyway And He'd Just End Up Hating Me Later Instead Of Sooner.

But There's Food If You Know How To Find It. My Father Knew And He Taught Me Some Before He Was Blown To Bits In A Mine Explosion. There Was Nothing Even To Bury. I Was Eleven Then. Five Years Later, I Still Wake Up Screaming For Him To Run.