sadness is a competition and something to be fed. my face changes every day, I stop trying to recognize it. I cut tiny pieces of my hair to feel like a criminal. on Sunday nights I teach myself to cry. I fantasize about being poisoned in a rose garden and a billowing Indigo gown. I try to run away from home without leaving my bed. it’s the first year I forget my age, the first year the number exceeds my expectations of myself. I am too aware of the wrong things and my name tastes foreign in my mouth. I change it. I practice my smile in the mirror. I regret learning to cry. the winter lasts three years and I emerge with lavender stains and shaking limbs having learned to paint my face and sit with my shoulders caved forward to shield my chest. the future is a bloody fog I cut my hand through every midnight. Fifteen: a wide eyed weak kneed stand- still.