December 2010
17 posts
I die each time I leave a place, every time I leave a part of myself behind. Parts of me strewn all over the world. There are new arms growing, I’m a Medusa with a thousand heads, a thousand smiling mouths. I have left hair and blood in all those places I once fled. Ghosts of years past slither through alleyways in Dallas, and strange empty-eyed girls sit in cafés in Tempe, only to be seen...
I can’t get that trumpet out of my head I...
