I do not remember what it’s like to eat a piece of food and not think twice about it. Can you tell me please? Take me back to when I was just born, to when bleeding hieroglyphs no longer sat on my thighs, to when my veins were already flushed of a need to ****. The lipstick on my mouth is made out of the blood I dissect from my body at night. Once I spilled a raindrop of cranberry juice onto a rosé journal and I cried. He pulled me in between houses. There he laid me down on the grass and I felt oh so very strange to be surrounded by my home, a place of love and kindness and security and welcoming food always ready on the table surrounded by smiling sisters. Yet no one came to save me that night. And so I still think about it today, long after he has moved away and I have still stayed sitting around that mendacious table of warm food I refuse to eat. My school shoes are the only shoes I own. I sleep with them on because I’m convinced that the idea of a happy young girl in long socks and short skirt and ******* that poke out just a little will enter the chloroplast of my cells and join the war against viruses that take me to that too familiar closet corner with the carpet stained with blood. Or is it cranberry juice? I cry.