Grown up? Me? I suppose I have. Killing things, and almost killing myself, must have changed me some, after all.

Hot flush, raging bluch. Ice flash, instant crash.

I do have friends, but they don't know me, only someone I've created to take my place. Someone sculpted from ice. I keep the melted me bottled up inside. Where no one can touch her, until, unbidden, she comes pouring out.

With you, I am Eve. And you are my beautiful Adam. Let's run away, find our garden, live there together, happy. Naked.

Possibilities ...in the closet ...itching ...to break out ...but afraid of ...the fallout

You can turn your back but you can never really walk away.

Pretty That's what I am, I guess. I mean, people have been telling me that's what I am since I was two. Maybe younger. Pretty as a picture. (Who wants to be a cliché?) Pretty as an angel. (Can you see them?) Pretty as a butterfly. (But isn't that really just a glam bug?) Cliché, invisible, or insectlike, I grew up knowing I was pretty and believing everything good about me had to do with how I looked. The mirror was my best friend. Until it started telling me I wasn't really pretty enough.