Anna Purnell (she/her)

Marching with Scissors

I thought she died at 50, that woman who was me, singing her heart out with abandon, dancing like a lunatic, awash in sequins, glitter, sweat, and the mad delirium that is performing for an audience. I thought life killed her: married, divorced, career, married again, kids, divorced again, married (third time's the charm). Not much room for music in all that. Got older. Not much room for sequins or activism. Afraid of failing, of looking old, of losing what was once as natural as the pulse you feel when you press your fingers against your wrist.