80, 90 miles per hour means nothing to me.
Remember tracing my skin with mother’s kitchen cutlery,
seeing how much it’d take to fill up the sink.
Had a gun aimed at my face without the instinct to blink.
I’ve had hands gripped ’round my throat,
and underneath my Sunday school dress.
He took from me and left nothing,
but I have made it through with much less.
Remember tracing my skin with mother’s kitchen cutlery,
seeing how much it’d take to fill up the sink.
Had a gun aimed at my face without the instinct to blink.
I’ve had hands gripped ’round my throat,
and underneath my Sunday school dress.
He took from me and left nothing,
but I have made it through with much less.
Born in Boston, MA and raised in Savannah, GA, Cheri Anne’s speech is divided as well as every other aspect of her outlook. As a trolley tour guide by day and student/writer by night, her super powers tend to be most drained. She’s never really understood “courtesy” or “hospitality” anyway. She lives a double life shrouded by science and mapped pamphlets where she can only think in verse. She has been published by TUCK magazine as the first contributor to be published under both categories within the same issue, and by Pill Hill Press, Wicked East Press, and Danse Macabre du Jour magazine.