In the womb I killed and ate my twin. Fetus in fetu. I was much too young when I saw the documentary—a result of so-and-so’s parent being in the shower, our sticky hands and sticky eyes pressed tight against the screen, unable, unwilling to change the channel—and thus it remained embedded like teeth my subconscious, the inherent wrongness of the word within another, of a mass of hair and teeth confiscated from the belly of an eight-year-old boy, slept so loudly beside me that it triggered in me many a nightmare. My mother had yearned for her so desperately that from the moment I was born she would not look me in the eye but I said, what difference is there, between us, and in that sense I had won. I would spend my first breathing moments clutching desperately toward forgiveness and then, when it did not drip from her breast like a slow, steady trickle of warm milk into my mouth, I bit and I bit until something else came trickling, warm, and as hers closed mine opened.