Jessica Farrell

Editor back-issues, poetry

Victory Couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. Paraplegic.   She kissed my body, my clothes removed themselves, he hummed “Crooked Teeth” while I cried silently like I was at my own funeral, wondering what I could have been, how much time this was going to take.   She was going to be a writer, my mother would hyperventilate, being the DJ to…

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