He hit her, twice. Thursday, I met a girl who lost something. She still rubs her molars warm eleven days later. Her biceps tensed against the drywall, but did not flinch. Where did she go? Juiced, her sternum hides a hypocrite. But she insists he was right to say: “Don’t feel that. It’s a loveContinue reading “And I watched”
Alanna Backen's writing pad
