A biography for Abby Musgrovehasn’t been written yet.
“I don’t existmetal pressed to pagesspilling blood, inkin vein each thought ragesSunlight shootingthrough a forest of pinesblack top windingand yellow dotted linesI am not hereonly a deep aching,a lightning flashand a tree trunk breakingSheets once alive covered in a deep redmark the presentbut I am not yet deadNothing is hereonly the rain and mistfresh air and soilI do not need to exist.”