I first think about smashing something. I want to put my fist through a bigass piece of glass. Watch the whole thing shatter, like a spider web. Like a symphony.
“Do you have good veins?” the nurse asked today. I am so much more than a long arm with a good vein. I am a fist. Two long legs with boots that click and go THWACK when I kick. I am strong and hard. Tall. When art students paint my portrait, I look mad. One woman painted me all distorted.
“The hard thing about painting pretty girls,” the teacher said, “is you make one mistake, and they look like monsters.”
I have learned how to sit in a subway car, tightly packed next to two strangers, our arms touching, and weep without them noticing. Fold your arms. Don’t let the sound come out.
What made me cry most? One thought, again and again.
I want my mommy. I want my mommy. I want my mommy.