I could craft a spangled instructional manual on coming undone, teach you how to be graceless, inelegant, unclench the handsomeness that embeds fingernails into palms. I should explain to you the art of female hysteria, flesh it out so bertha in the attic becomes tangibly resurrected. Possibly I’ll teach you how to slit your hair into barbed pieces or to carve into your own heart with a pen knife, how to gut yourself rotten and raw from the inside out. If you flit to page three, you’ll find a section on running headless on all fours through wild moors and the perfect noose to accompany you on a woodland walk.

You’ll likely enjoy the part on how I see things sometimes; spewing maggots into my father’s cupboard mugs, careering busloads of skeleton frames into the mouth of the river or the way bleach could corrode all my issues when steeped out of a shower head. Possibly you’ll want to hear about how my cheeks are hot red in a way that’s entirely wrong, abraded by sinews, not blush. Flick to the denouement, curated to enable you to ignore my core, where you’ll find the secret, how to unravel completely, begrimed with brain cravats so smoldering they never heal, a bibliography turned scarlet letter where my name is signed over and over and over.