A Church Named Sally

There’s nothing like awaiting exile in the lobby of a Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center with a woman who no longer loves you, only wants the six-month ostracization she planned with your entire immediate family solidified. My scraggly brown hair swaddles my face—the latest disaster involving a pair of scissors and my obliterated-self—my arms dangle at my sides like a couple of bruised bananas, still wrapped in white bandages from a recently popped abscess; little red polka dots seep through the bedraggled cotton from the chunks of blood and puss that copulated on the death of my skin, then crawled down the frailty of my soul and I started to cry.



*A (unedited) paragraph from my upcoming memoir A Church Named Sally – another chapter of my 8-year heroin addiction; also a prequel to my first memoir which released in May of this year and is available at all major book outlets. 



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