At thirteen, I found my baby pictures.
Full of small red aliens. Prototypes of personhood. The bulging blue eyes of a newborn chick, still glazed with skin. The wordless bliss of a tiny yawning thing, swimming in blankets. Before it was necessary to grow teeth, for digestion and defense.
I felt like crying. And I told her, even though we were strangers, and deaf to eachother's counsel...
I told her not to grow up to be me.