spilled raze the repurposed day planner has a metal coil running through its spine. it begins with a list of everyone she's loved. blue belt of names looped longhand around her waist. welded to one page is a passport issued to the father she never knew. there are pictures of him dying on his living_room couch. white hair and a moustache to match. there are photographs, too, of me and my sisters. some i've never seen, taken on a day when something soured my stomach and i couldn't keep a good meal down. i should return this small scrapbook to its maker. but it's all i have left of her. and i'm not ready to let go. once i stood in a field of reeds, her eyes and the eyes of others on me like locusts. like searchlights scanning my skin. "just talk to us," she said. i cut myself open, and out of a saw-toothed slit seeped the story of my life. 260120 what's it to you? who go blather from