Melody Murray's Books

I'm not sure what I can say about this book. Maybe that it was written in letters of fire, written in blood that seemed to be my own blood. Made me puke and cry and hide my head under the covers then reach for it again just for a minute? This one, geeze, this one. Gets up inside your head and talks in your own voice, if you are one of those girls. And I am, though it wasn't my father. And my dead babies weren't big enough to hold. I don't know that I can recommend it. It's messy and bloody and raw and full of pain. You'll know right away if it's a book you belong in. You'll know.