Poetry. The odd review. Prose of the fiction and non fiction variety. Let they who does not have a shit bio cast the first stone.
I left you quietly, the closing of a paperback, no fanfare at the completion of our story. Maybe I was scared, maybe I was whiskey sick of waiting in the cold for bones to be…
He said it’s a consequence of all the years I burned,
The nights where all I did was purge.
She danced with the devil
and stole his voice.
It curled from her mouth like smoke,
preferable to the salt water drowning her lungs
or sulfur submerging her bones.