I look at her, with her bruised bag-eyes and flower-stalk neck, and I wonder at what point she became me. At what point I became her.
And then I put on my other eyes, and I look at her again. I look at her, with her bloated, fluid-retaining abdomen. I look at her, with her slack, flopping skin. I look at her, chipmunk cheeks bulging with poison, and there is a Voice. A Voice which sounds like metal scraping metal; like the strangled cry of a trapped, mangled animal. And The Voice says: