The unexpected violence of memories. I tied my mother to a stake and I saw your cunt. I see you smile. Language pierces flesh like iron, copper wire electrifying wound around words and suturing your spear wounds. My mother lives in me.
Violence lives in the blood.
When you suicide, you kill someone by proxy. My death, my life. The fragment is misunderstood and usually applied incorrectly, as I spit blood in your eye. Her life, her death, are either poignant stories that make you cry, or bloody eyeballs torn from their sockets. Jenny, four years old, was crying.