My mother thinks I'm not myself with her anymore (because I'm not, and how could I be?). I don't miss the child who danced in department stores, caught caramels from July 4th floats. I am not her, and she is not me. Her sparkling smile has lapsed away, eroded into the sexiness I attempt to allude now. As if being fuckable was something more enriching. At twenty, I'm smaller than I ever was before. Weaker, even, because of my smallness. I've been gripping onto the edge of the daily routine, and felt my palms ache at the attempt. My hands burn, rope cuts skin. I'm forgetting what's within now. A certain strength I could muster at one time has all but left me with a wet kiss on the cheek. Life sneers Try again later, sweet heart. Test your luck one more time...