I can organize my cuts and burns by alphabetical order, day of the week, last year this year. I can recite the reasons why I love them more than any man, any shirttail brushing inside my inner thigh:
they never leave. My blades never miss, I never have to miss my blades when they leave.
I heard the story of a man who was murdered, his wife abused and still he did not leave he stayed like a scar because he rose again the moment someone else touched her skin, blew up as if full with gasoline. I watched him fly above the city, dropping death on those who already had their hands on it wrung it out of beautiful men and women.
I want to do that so badly, **** myself cell by cell, scrape the skin off flake by flake. I want to be dead but not know it yet. Sail in the air as ashes.