by Karen Crawford

She remembers how the grounds were damp with mourning angels. How her Sunday heels sank deeper with every step. How she clenched his ring until her nails bled half-moons into her palm. How his was a death by a thousand midnight promises. How she crossed herself, tossed those thousand promises into the freshly dug earth and topped it off with fistfuls of dirt. How it was the dirt on her hands that stopped the bleeding.


Karen Crawford lives in the City of Angels, where she exorcises demons one word at a time. Her work appears in Anti-Heroin Chic, Rejection Letters, Potato Soup Journal, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Unfortunately Literary Magazine among others. You can find her on Twitter.