Umma takes the eye mask off my face when it’s over. There is blood everywhere, clots that gush out of me. I know without looking that they look like tiny, ripped-out human hearts. Red, dark brown, purple, wet, glistening like the rotten plums in our backyard. Blood that will smear and crust on my skin, my skin so soft and pale and young.

I bring my knees to my chest and rock myself. If I stay too still, I can feel the gnawing inside of me. The wounds. The scraping and rubbing from the sharp metal spoon. Umma holds me and cries.

And I still feel it.