There’s a graveyard in my house. Eviscerated

bodies litter the carpet of my bedroom, and I push

the swells of my palms against my eyes

as if that could erase the image or the smell.

I lick the crimson slick from my hands. Candied watermelon.

If only HGTV could sell this one, a lovely shade of Coca-Cola

red perfect for every home. My knees give out and I’m clutching the carpet,

dry heaving against a mountain of plastic. My younger cousin

watches from the corner like a doe caught in a hunter’s trap,

hiding their hands behind their back. I wish I could see them.

My mother offers: “Calm down. Tiny bodies were made to be pulled apart.”