I was born tiny, naked and sticky and shivering behind a girl’s watercolor lips somewhere inside another girl’s dream. The dream was of school, then of a pool of deep violet water, then of a girl’s translucent hands spiderwebbed with blue veins, and then the dream was a chrysalis and cracked into a Fear. A little one, a hungry one, a one more teeth and legs than eyes or hands. Me.
Ice cream tastes different when you’re dead.