I’ve been trying to think of an opening to start this poem, but all I can think of right now, is my grandfather and how he used to mix & match consonants when he said things to lighten the mood in the Omni,

when we all knew in a couple of hours I would be heading right back into the vortex of my toxic parents.

We would all laugh and recombine syntax while on our way to Weeks for some English muffins and chocolate milk, at the stoplight you could say

we looked like a bunch of hoodlums that had just robbed a Citizens bank, and got away with it. Finally feeling and being free doesn’t matter as much as spending a few moments each day authoring one’s own story.