When your body wasted away and became nothing more than a carcass filled with cancer, we began the bureaucratic business of dealing with death. I never saw your body. I waited on the other side of an indifferent doorway while those stronger than me went to see what the disease had left behind. My sister walked back out and into my arms. She shook her head and set her jaw and looked like she would burn down the whole world if only she had enough gasoline to soak it in. Her eyes were filled, but her face was dry as our mother cried behind her. “That’s not your dad,” my mom choked out. I said nothing, and silently wished that I could get away with saying nothing for the rest of my life.

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I’m morbidly fascinated with edges. The edges of blades, glinting and indifferent. The edges of rooftops, sudden and unforgiving. The edges that separate me from another, the invisible lines and definitions of our relationships, the tangible ridges of our clothes.

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