POSTCARDS

Every city was foreign. Every letter, unread.

She found herself in a foreign city, surrounded by noises and smells she couldn’t name.

Wandering until exhaustion became a kind of ritual.

Trying to communicate turned into performance art.

She wrote postcards—single-spaced and breathless—addressed to the ghost of her former self.

Each one an attempt to explain what she’d seen.

And who she was becoming.

There was no one left to listen.

No one left to care.

So she packed her bags.

And traveled to the next location of her imagination.