Victorian Psycho

by Virginia Feito

It is early fall, the cold is beginning to descend, and in three months everyone in this house will be dead.

I fail to understand why men think talk of violence will distress women. Women, who bleed all over themselves every month, who rub blood clots between their fingers and burst them like insects, and sometimes can’t because they’re not blood clots, they’re tongue-coloured strings of meat from the womb.