What bloomed in the bog-wood wasn’t a flower, but self-respect of solitude in name only, the grounds of which were only within this chest, raising a self-deprecation habit out of desperation.

With acid rain of bitterness, from the rich soil, a desire for revenge smoldered, sucking up nutrients from the ember-like everyday along with memories of messing around.

It occurred to me, teacher, that every tree is growing to adulthood very quickly.

In the end, a few bombs ripened.

That fruit was dirty-looking and bitter, yet even so, it though it had to do so, on that early afternoon of defeat.

The fallen leaves’ emotions reflected off of the sound of cicadas filled these ears.

I was no longer hearing nothing but my own voice.