Sometimes I’d pulverize my hands until there was no bone and no prospect of creation and hoped they cooked quickly on the flat top grill with malt liquor fajitas and humanely butchered prescription pills that marbled our flesh in preparation for our own unceremonious slaughter I hoped that my preparation would be in a crock pot set to keep warm so that no one really noticed if they were consuming or not and my legacy was as forgettable as a seasonal appetizer other times I sat and wondered why I hadn’t passed that kidney stone or why I didn’t cry at that funeral or why I had found myself on a missing person shirt at a neglected thrift store and wondered how long I’d been gone