across the street i see
an old man and a nineteen-year-old girl.
a newborn wails in her arms as a burnt cigarette lands at her feet.
drugs cigarettes one man’s dead
gentlemen's club on route 17.
the bitterly addictive depression-flavored air,
the Kissimmee dystopia.
Castle Inn and Suites graced in a stunning shade of lilac,
a holding cell for tired faces stained with celeste blue tears.
while their children play tag on the balcony,
my eyes start to sting as i drive past.
mangroves oak trees spanish moss
algae-ridden water blankets dark grey sand,
engulfing me like a much needed embrace.
everglades palms hold strong when nothing else seems to be able to.
then when getting off the interstate i had my window down,
and there was a man who begged for spare change.
and i said yes, handing him my last dollars and cents
because we all want to get out of here too.
sun sand sadness
sleeping under the bottlebrush tree, trying to let myself go,
but i can see the beauty under the rubble.
i still wouldn’t trade it for the world.
after "Florida" by Audre Lorde
Finley Heesch is a high school student in the Bronx, with a passion for both medical science and creative writing. She loves to write out of her tiny apartment in the city, but has not thought about publishing her works until just earlier this year.