Hand it over, it says, the knife in her purse. Her mother tells the police she knows where La La is: it is not a better place. She slices the sharp searches for the life the heat the wet they do not see. She slices a gash and sharps over it over it over it. Where is your daughter, they ask, naked with glasses on, they’re visual she can’t show them because they’re visual. She hands it over her eyes red against crease, they grow cold run in. She passes through. She slices the sharp the red the crease, safe dripping, she slices La La all night because mothers always know.