" The more I put into my screaming, the more things became unhinged—I gave sound to the things that had no language: the tense groove above Mamá’s lips, the snail shell in my palm, Petrona’s swollen mutant skin swallowing her eye and the points of her lashes, Abuela’s porcupine back. I started to lose track of myself, until there was someone else yelling. "

― Ingrid Rojas Contreras , Fruit of the Drunken Tree