Who I was before doesn’t matter. Maybe she’s still out there, some shadow of me walking barefoot in the fields I left behind, a girl with skinned knees and a bad temper, kicking sand in her crush’s eyes in the first-grade because she wanted to see what rage looked like on someone else. Or maybe she died the night I told the devil what I wanted, her body sinking into the floorboards, her hands still clenched into fists.
