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.

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