Maybe there is no reason I did that. Anesthesia. Tobacco dust. When fire escapes. Exhaustion fumes from kissed range. You are in first grade and that boy with collapsed-syllables for final name turned around and forced his penis into your pupil. Who did I become after that moment. Sarah McLachlan. Short hair. Harmonica against lips because breaths needed a place to escape into. Juggling jobs and genders. With barrette on left side above forehead, imprisoning chunk of burgundy hair, man still refers to you as sir. Ben Folds Five on repeat in room above basement on dead-end street. Fishmonger forgets you are a human with boundaries. Each time someone called my hair sobeautiful instead of brain as sobountiful. A need to overeat to cover up the slashes. Hippie strokes forearm and calls it an art project. That time we showered together for the first time but it was the third time and sometimes drugs remain in bodies long enough to blur the ability to remember. Remember? Warm orange juice during a snowstorm in November in Queens. See page almost 16 and refer to not-quite 25. A room two floors below rooftop in Boulder where someone stole a piece big enough to still echo from every direction that I hide. The girl with confused teeth who fell in love with me somewhere in Connecticut. That time I was seven. When I was fist diagnosed and then that next time. I thought I was born on a Friday because I confused F with a day of the week. A refusal of breast milk. An allergy to self-esteem. That time in Vermont. Blood can mystify us into thinking we are close to death, especially during menstruation. Whiskey and pickle juice. A black-out of body against confused cold tile in barroom bathroom and bedroom and dance club balcony and her lap. Tuesday morning. Panic attack on eastern parkway. That afternoon I forgot what city I was born in. See footnote (omitted). Refer to chapter it-hasn’t-happened. What version of earth is this; I may need to download a more durable version.