Young Writers Project

I've forgotten that the sky is blue,

which some say should be hard –

and yet,

look up.

I've forgotten that rain is not black,

that it falls in a straight line,

but now

it twists with the wind and is black as night.

I've forgotten that the world is not aflame,

that fires don't engulf every street

and take as many lives

as they do leaves.

I've forgotten what it is like to not wear a mask,

to laugh freely without a barrier,

and somehow, some way...

I'm used to it.

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