I should have watered the garden but I didn’t. Things that were alive are dead now because of me. And this is not the first time. I have enjoyed slaughtered animals in sauce— sometimes by mistake, sometimes knowingly. I have let men enter me, usually by mistake. I feed the animals I keep in my house the heads and hearts of other animals ground down and baked into little cookies called kibble. They eat it all and beg for more. I cover my animal parts in cloth made by people in other countries in conditions called unlucky. I hang a cruelty-free Christmas pig on my plastic pine knowing a real tree died for this cardboard display. We are dysfunctional expressions of DNA. Climate scientists say we’re as good as dead now anyway, but greedy as cancer, we still gorge and grow— exhausting everything, consuming even ourselves.