I see the shadow of a long dead girl, gun in the arms,
cradled and braced at her face. I drip sweat, as these
four walls light up with images. Viscous memories
want my attention, and they won't ask at all for all
they take. Past is over. All girls are dead girls. I'm a
woman, now. Finger pulled back, bullet to the skull
of a native in a native's land, made strange with loud
strangers' demands, blood blown back decorates my
young hands, my masters lift me up an echelon.

A portal opens in my bedroom that leads to the
bathroom sink, where I swallow pink pills.
Swallow white pills.
Swallow blue pills.