There has got to be a name for that condition of destruction in which an object becomes more fragile the more it is admired. It’s the early violence that I am glad to miss. To imagine a string pulling the top of my head up and in line with my leg—a love ly smile of abjection takes the strain. A wretched joke of community. A ceremonial shard. A cyclical cut. A pose of tight thighs bleeding forever. I’d been neglected to have been told of a snake below my belly that communes with the moon and the waves. It sheds its skin, it eats its tail. It knows too much about me.

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