This is important.
The walk up to the cliffs lined with daffodils and daisies and flowers whose names I do not know—the sea is mostly blue. Ireland calls this area a protected habitat.
There is no light at the end of this tunnel.
We have the same last name. That there is a ‘we’ when I have to talk of us is almost as inflammable as low-grade polyester. Only more. There is no ‘us’. I repeat—there is no ‘us’—if I say it enough times, it will become the truth.
The sea is a whitish green from the top. Why the sea is called so many different names in different countries is something I will never understand—everybody wants a sea of their own.
Newspapers only quote last names. I am both criminal and victim. You are nowhere, and everywhere.
The best way to teach a seven-year-old girl about anatomy is by example:
34324 throbbing veins that are writing into memory
teeth can grind and suck
1 hand on 1 mouth
weight on weight on muffled giggles, then tears.
I am going to start to pretend I don’t remember most of it—or any of it.
And this is how I will die. This is not so important after all.