I am not perfection, and I never intend to be To write is to escape And to escape is to be truly free The voices in my head have faces and names and brilliant comebacks
By Rebekah Meech5 years ago in Poets
The air smells like hot metal, salt, and garbage. It’s no wonder, really. We’ve been sailing around skyscrapers and bodies for three days.
By Rebekah Meech5 years ago in Fiction
