“Biracial, I think.”
Luciana glanced up into the mirror to see who had said it, but it was impossible to tell; the chatter of thirty-one, day-tripping blue hairs and silver tops muddled any trace of its origin.
No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
“Biracial, I think.”
Luciana glanced up into the mirror to see who had said it, but it was impossible to tell; the chatter of thirty-one, day-tripping blue hairs and silver tops muddled any trace of its origin.
You keep the secret of what you look like when no one’s watching.
Only once in my life, I saw an evil eye; up too late, I admit, and this happened in another country, where unknown scents
My encounters with classical music through the ages (it feels like it, right!) have been a sort of muddle of awe and motor way-pile up.
Truth wasn’t one of my strong points. I believed that the more intelligent were adroit liars, able to manipulate the truth for their own purposes, ...