This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Oxford Emory chapter.
Take me back to the salt
ocean waves
of Santa Monica.
To the arms
of an airplane
and the words
from my father.
Hold my hand
when I grow afraid
of the world laid out in front of
me
and take me home
after a long, twisted day.
Keep me in your arms,
when others seem to doubt me
When first place isn’t
something
I hold in their hearts.
Tell me that you
love who I have become
though I have
not been forgiven
by many I have hurt.
I miss her,
for she was whole and
uncomplicated.
Filled to the brim and topped
with innocence—
I’m all burnt at the edges.