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SCRAMBLER presents


This is Not the Secret Diary of Laura Palmer
by María Sánchez

We, Laura, we. Animals, mermaids, broken embroidery, cocaine in algebra equations, hyenas looking for comfort in the empty belly of a cadaver lying on the side of the road. We raise our shirt for a line, for a broken glass but wow, Bob, wow decrypted the code decrypted the crime, twenty five years Laura, twenty five years and in the room a screaming voice repeats over and over she’s wrapped in plastic I was born and you were already dead, Laura. Even if we do the same things, even if our arms are bent backwards, you were dead. We Laura, waiting to see god’s face, waiting to sing hallelujah hallelujah but we are too stained for purity, we already have a garden where crazy people, drunks, and the sick play in the chest. We carry the scar and the stigma, we know how to imitate the barking of dying dogs and sleeping trees. We are the daughters of gravity and precipice. We chew and we gobble up this gum that has not come back into fashion, we bite until we reduce ourselves to blood and frost. We always Laura, w e.

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