Always a Poet, even in Prose.

Mirna Trpkova

Born and Raised in Macedonia


Moved to Los Angeles


…. I stopped smiling the day my gums thinned out so much that at night I got used to standing in front of a mirror, seeing the reflection of the people of all my daily encounters. I puked all their sighs and then I stopped receiving sound. I clogged one of my ears with fear that their talking gin I would hear, the other one I didn’t touch so I can catch the sequence before the earthquake that otherwise often visits me while I secretly eat cherries and listen to music out of tune. The ground splits, offering hands underneath my feet, waving at me and my knees from fear are broken down so easily. Every now and then the past returns to slap me from behind, to make me kiss the dust on the ground and I cease to talk. I recover my sight only when firework sparks and I catch big, bright fading star and imagine the birth of a new one – with warm temperature, sea and shore, martini with olive for no use, I just go there and watch the World burns.

What about you?


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