I killed her slowly, in broad daylight,
with a thousand soft deletions.
First a comma, then a clause,
then the inconvenient ribs of evidence
filed down to anecdote.
She bled statistics in the comments section,
gasped footnotes that no one read.
I dressed the wound in trending hashtags,
poured certainty like cheap champagne
until the bubbles drowned the source.
Now she lies elegant and flexible—
a body rearranged for every room.
Witnesses applaud the surgery:
How alive she looks, they say,
how relevant, how useful.
I keep a sliver of her in my pocket,
sharp enough to cut my own tongue
when the mirror asks questions.
The rest I scatter like confetti
at the festival of agreeable fictions.
Truth is dead. Long live the narrative.