I never hurt on purpose. Unless you count that time in dissection I took a scalpel to my own thumb, like an emperor trying to understand his choices. It slid so easy through the skin, Kool-Aid through wall after wall. I wanted to spare the frog in its Tupperware hearse, awaiting further study. Am I not worth study? I thought of nothing but the cut for weeks until it healed, if healing means closing to visitors. Was that on purpose? Or that time I slapped my face lottery pink and thought you’d be relieved, like I saved you the trouble. Like that wasn’t the trouble. I’m the kind of person to get rigor mortis before the killer shows up. In the classroom with the scalpel. In the heart with its lead pipe. I might have learned a thing or two from the frog. It’s still kicking.