'I've never been so angry in my life,'
she said, 'But I don't want to be, you know?'
Frustration in every syllable, a knife's
dull after-ache, a wound that will not go.

(Later in the day the panic will recur
            bright and brittle, like seashells,
            and recklessness might be mistaken
                        for bravery
                                    if you squint.)

'The hardest part is when you turn,
like in a wuxia, you know? To meet
the shade head on, the night
assassin, and you know
before you even do it, you just
know that it looks
like you. It was never
anyone else.'