By C. L. Liedekev
You wonder who really deserves it. What is easy, what is hard. What your own death will be. Small gruesome polaroid of your body paperclipped to a manilla folder, some failing grade, some excused absence. You think death and you think of her head, flipped back, skin gripping on the body flap. Her precious body, this wondrous and crippled thing, full of holes both tiny and big, both real and foreign. And now it lays in the California sun, which you remember as hammering as you walked back from In and Out Burger on some work trip. Young belly immune to slashing wounds. That same immortality was not contagious, did not spread along to what spirit she became. Her head is long since turned to crabapple and ash. A box with her name in gold, bought by her killer, touched by the orphans left behind. The tiny hawk circled them that day and every day since. Its screech has her voice as soothing as heartbreak, as soothing as true. Then you see we all deserve it, one last surprise party thrown by our dead or not dead parents. Everyone is there, everyone is laughing and drinking, and holding sharp blades at the exposed landscape of a neck.
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