What happened that night in Washington DC. I remember only belts and necks and broken skin. First girl I liked. What my mother said in the car when I was 15. In her bedroom when I was 8 or 9. Who she was is so alien now. I don’t need my friends. I feel evil. They’re always on my nerves, and I don’t know why. I came close to killing myself once or twice, when I was so young. The boy I liked in high school. Our history. He’s married now, to a girl with my name and a tattoo in the same place on the same shoulder. Why I can’t eat in front of boys. My high school best friend who shares my name. I wanted to marry her, I think. I’m still obsessed with boys. I’m still scared of their eyes and teeth. I’m trying not to be fifteen anymore, but boys make it impossible. Still don’t want to grow up. I miss fireflies and sharing a top bunk with my brother, even though I had my own room. I miss my sister giggling from below us, a baby. I can’t think without the bones in my brain snapping in half. I don’t know how I carry the things I carry without being crushed like a beer can under a man’s booted heel, and I do it every day. All the time I spend imagining what it would be like if my brother died, my sister died, they both died, so vividly that I cry about nothing but fake dead people in my head. If my parents died and I had to take care of my sister. I don't know how I breathe. I’m not afraid to die or to have a daughter because I am just like my mother. I know that I could. I know that every day of the rest of my life would feel like drowning in a sea of my own blood but never learning how to die.