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by Elizabeth Sigmon

Maybe everyone knows, 

maybe everyone has always known

about the ache you feel 

from the stares of children

as you stood in the corner

playing ball with the wall 

and the wall kept winning. 

It will remain long after you’ve left 

those haunted fluorescent halls

that smirked at you every weekday morning

as you run into the wall for the fifteenth time

while your head was in the clouds 

your eyes glued to your feet. 

You leave that place behind,

lock it in a dark closet inside your mind

you hope you’ll never be able to find

so you will never have to feel that ache again. 

But you do every time a friend

notices your floppy hands for the first time,

your impulse to touch everything in sight,

concrete textured walls and their holes

that beam so bright

and how you can never walk in a straight line.

The ache comes back to remind you 

that there are some things 

you simply can’t outgrow.

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Elizabeth Sigmon (she/her) is a poet originally from Atlanta, Georgia. She is a senior at Young Harris College (’22), where she is obtaining her B.A. in Creative Writing and a minor in music. She is currently the Editor-in-Chief for the student literary magazine, Artemas and has previously been published in local publications such as Peachtree Corners Life magazine. She is currently working to finish her degree with ambitions to go to graduate school to complete her Masters in Creative Writing.

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