At 21

You hear these sounds falling out of your mouth, sounds of panic and muddiness , vowels like marbles, consonants like bricks, words tumbling like cardboard boxes shoved down the stairs. You look into the blighted mirror and see eyes staring back, but they don’t look like yours, they’re too dark and unafraid to look back, rose-colored orbs ruptured with tears, crying for home, crying for an anchor, something solid, something to hold you back from the chaos that’s about to begin.

You’re 21-years-old, stained with wine, and you mouth the only word you can remember: Ruth.

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Author: Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

8 thoughts on “At 21”

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