Krista FRANKLIN

back to milk four home

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Pariah Hypnotized by the aura of stage lights, the staccato heartbeat of drums that emanated from speakers, I craved a dingy roadhouse, the bar entrances off alleyways. I used to sneak off late nights, my body swallowed in navy hoodies and baggy jeans, dreadlocks tied in knots. Wine cooler in hand, I'd stand a second from whirlpool of mosh pit, instruments clashing, like the thrashing bodies of those white boys, feedback shrieking herself to desolation. On those nights, a skeleton key turned inside me, singularity's bony fingers wrapped around my throat.