Sometimes she takes out her eyes and folds them into little cranes so that she can fly far above herself to take in, one by one, all the hurtful things. They place pain on rooftops and treetops for her, on utility poles even—anywhere they can set their dirtying and tearing edges without severing the connection to her completely. Misguided construction and awry folds characterize her creations, but of course, it’s easy to deny what represents the self. She thinks her little, shaking hands are powerful. She thinks these hands are psychic, as they are the only part of her she can watch at all times, see all sides of in the dark if she brings them close enough. Today they tell her she is dying. Tomorrow she will not like to watch them shake.