My own skin — a skin that’s worn me out, I have scrubbed it raw and dry like a sorry imitation of Capitoline Venus, but statues manage to crumble so quietly, draped in wood dust and without so much as a heartbeat. And girls like me don’t know yet the weight of the things they have to lose: such as, 100 pounds — all bones, and coffee breaths, and yesterday's light straying, forgetting, falling off.

Now it has buried itself.