I am going to heed warnings and destroy the evidence. Yes, I am cinching my waist with the belt, the black one, too small last month—fashioning a noose for this body, a vessel afforded by virtue of contingency, one that continues to function despite my vehement protests, and I am going to tie a clove hitch sturdy enough to bear its weight.

I am going to run my conscience through the dishwasher. I am going to microwave my phone. I am going to weep in the restroom for better acoustics. I am going to make grief my own. I am going to develop a phantom limb. I am going to liquefy desire. I am going to receive unwelcome gifts. I am going to organize my closet by season, or color, or the ruse of nostalgia; nothing has happened how we remember it happening.

I am going to write with venom. I am going to thank my mother. Ravenous ghosts wreath my hospital bed, beckoning me like sirens. I am going to inhale asbestos with purpose and urgency. I am going to pare my skin in long, thin fillets. I am going to atrophy, because—and of this I am certain—rotting is the only selfless act.