To Be A Girl Is Always To Be A Dead Girl
And all these girls talking together. All their tiny breaths
of air, stupid eyes, fingers in wells or locked doors or little narratives
that don’t belong to them.
When was the first time you felt a hole inside? Felt
the hole widen. Felt the thick linoleum of the kitchen against your stomach.
Are you listening to everything coming out of my pretty girl mouth?
His hands were like grass. No, they were like violets.
His dead, his girl.
When I remembered, I saw a hallway
filled of it all
And then it happens again
about the author