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He told me for his birthday all he wanted was for there to be less of me but when he unwrapped the box I had left him on the kitchen table, a present just for him, he wouldn’t stop screaming at the disembodied arm, wet with blood, within. He wasn’t grateful that I had torn myself apart, my will to please stronger than my body. 

It's hard to kill a man when you have only one arm. It's hard to put him in a box and dig a hole in the backyard and put him in the hole you dug and then cover that hole with dirt and then plant flowers over it so that when the police come by there is nothing to see but the thick leafy spread of lilies of the valley, the mourning flower, growing green and white, little bells so delicate.

Hard but not impossible.