We have potions for sadness and potions for too many potions. We have the sadness of wrong lovers. We have the love of potions. Last night I pulled a man out of me and watched him become a frog in a pile of black lace. Last night I was a pile of woman. I keep meaning to buy new lingerie. My tits are as pretty as they’re ever going to be. A little scarred where the piercings tried. The ones my body wouldn’t take. To ache is perhaps the first human act. Perhaps the last, too. I held my guts in my body all day in the dark. I have lived nine lives where women comb my hair and clean my room while I break prayers out of myself. Today, nobody tends me. I will have to be my own mercy. I ask the computer for Chinese food, slowly nibble myself free.