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Hell, she might not have ever seen a fleck of snow. Some kids in West Texas don’t feel rain on their face until they’re five.
Texas is a beautiful poison you drink from your mother’s breast; the older you get and the farther you run, the more it pounds in your blood.
The truth is, I’m not brave. I’m not even that willing. I’m just more afraid of one thing happening than the other.
No, my cousin is not charmed. Her empathy and resilience just make it appear that way.
Loving dark men is a seesaw. They never tell you everything. You always wonder if the tiny red spot on a shirt is really from a spaghetti dinner like they claim. But then they put a bird back in a nest. They pull a drowning kid out of the water. And that’s all it takes. The spaghetti is not blood.
A single light shines on the Texas flag—a big white star on a red, white, and blue field. Easy to draw, easy to love.
She knows I lived in a trailer park where most people never even heard of the Louvre, but where there’s no faster education on earth. Take away an eye, and you get a Ph.D. Add a year in a group home with pissed-off girls who feel like thrown-away Kleenex, and it’s a study abroad on every planet in the universe.
The river that ran by my Oklahoma trailer park was filthy with washed-off sins.
But in the long minute after he shot me, while he considered shooting me again, I knew my father always would be.
He rolls down the window and spits. It doesn’t fly back in, pretty much a redneck Olympic skill at this speed.
Home Sweet Home. That’s the embroidery on the living room pillow. But the truth is always on the flip side—the messy mistakes and ugly knots, the trails that crisscross in places they shouldn’t,
