I love her dead eyes. I love her freakishly doll-like porcelain face. I love how her uneven, wavy hair falls awkwardly into her slender profile, mirrored by a shadow that's always one footstep ahead in time when she dances. Predicting where her movements will find themselves in five, ten, sixty seconds contributes to the experience. For me. My first concert, and I chose for it to be hers. My first and my last, if the night would be so kind.

When she sang, her words cut into the flesh, so deep that the prose could taste my ancestors- My grandmother died in 1890. Her second husband found her playful on the bedroom mattress with the butcher from two blocks down, and made the unfortunate decision to place upon them the... sharpness of pinpricks and daggers that had just then began to tear at his organs from within. Steadfast. Unsparing. He rushed forward, slit her throat with the cleaver he had palmed from the kitchen drawer, and shortly took the butcher’s top with a sort of irony- a broken heart, a severed head.