Standing there among the skinny trees in the courtyard, she doesn’t look much different from anyone else, except she’s got an eyepatch now. A lit cigarette dangles from her lips. She told you once she hates talking about herself. (She’d get lost in the maze of her mind, she feared what she’d find there.) That’s why she’s a poet. She’s outside of herself;
she notices everything.
You ask her when she started smoking again. Last week, she said. And then I found out that the AVM stopped bleeding.
The AVM, a winding mess of blood vessels in her brain, wiring malformed at birth into a thick tangle like t
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