Later tonight, you will lie in bed and think of me. Your lips will bury the syllables of my name beneath your tongue, a grave for all the ways we never knew each other. Think of it like this: Until we meet again, the memory of me will creep up your spine, ivy to the column of your casing, your home.

Tell me, do you like that thought? If you closed your eyes now, what would you see? Bones stripped of tendons? Fat-slick meat, marbled slabs beautified by slaughter? I manifest the morbid. What do I h...