Church basements.

When all the cigarettes are smoked, when all the coffee is drank, then what? I’ll still be alone, stuck with me, myself, and I.

It’s cold out here, like organs dropped on concrete and broken text messages, cracked smartphone screens, and stupid reminders of who I really am.

At least I know how to pour onto pages, wait for car rides to church basements filled with friendly strangers. A glimpse of hope strung itself around my neck as the stairs ended and my story begged to begin.

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