I. Claudia told me I’m not pretty enough to dance with a reverie, cause I hardly wear mascara and turquoise shadow. I didn’t pout my lips at the hornball neighbor when he saw me changing through my undraped window. And I never thought of fingering myself to loosen up for the real thing.

II. The little girl climbed on her father’s shoulders in the pumpkin patch. Orange baked her fat cheeks. She shared a fleeting glance with the man who taught her everything, holding it there as if not to break its fragility. Her unpinned braid fell apart in strands when she climbed back down to earth.

III. Coffee not tea.

IV. I heard that people who make believe to be happy by smiling, hugging, and laughing, actually become happier.

V. I felt a pop as my pelvis rocked, guess I’m not supposed to grow up yet. My dotted duvet still keeps me snug at night and warm milk makes me fall asleep so easy.

VI. My hips, they ache like a bad head cold. I press a hot rag to my skin and watch the water burn away the pink layers of my breasts to leave nothing but a foundation of flesh.