"Please? I promise I won't be a-a-n-nnoying,"
Charlie took in a deep breath. "I have a s-s-t-tutter."
"It's okay, I can understand what you're saying.
What happened to give you one? Were you born
with it?"
"I w-w-wish. Ma-aybe then it w-w-would b-be easier to deal with
it because I w-wouldn't k-know the feeling of clear
speech v-v-v-vibrating on m-y-y tongue and e-e-scaping through
the ti-i-ny do-o-ors of my lips."
"Then what happened?" I asked him as we brainstormed
ideas on my little torn, wrecked, destroyed to its spine,
absolutely unusable journal.
"T-That's a s-story for a-a-another time. After all, y-you didn't
want me to p-p-participate.." He cheekily smiled, knowing
exactly what I was going to say.
I playfully glared at him, "Okay, okay, fine. You
can help me with the art project. We can work together."
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
