The nonsense remarks our fathers tell us, for example: We are all beautiful inside and we must get a good education. Well, for the most part, they are right. But my father also mocks the sound of my tears and when I eat my mother strikes my hand as I grab for a piece of naan or something like, you can imagine. I feel weak at times despite the calories, like a shriveled berry. Sometimes, I call a boy when my eyes have dried so as to not disrupt a balance. I am sure he may feel lonely at times, but he runs and absorbs himself in his sciences and religious texts. Me? I am a rat girl who digs old things from their hideouts in my room. My old stories and fantasies of a prince who reads my hidden letters, finds them first actually, instead of my brown hand pulling his ear toward me. Me, saying softly: look inside here.