In the real world I’m proud, I think.

I get through the day and it’s a lot, and it’s hard, and there are these shining bright moments of functionality that surprise me. I have let myself become convinced that I am incapable. I walk out into that world each day with that at the forefront of my teeth, held back best it can by those exposed, neglected bones

(they’re broken, some are missing, I have fake ones, they’re not as strong.)

There are things I can do well.

As a kid I knew this, and they taught me quick it was kind of egotistical to think that. Ego is ugly on a woman.

I’m not a woman, I say, and they smile indulgently.

Of course. Sure.

(Dip your head and grin. Smile! You’re prettier that way. Pretend you don’t know. You’re prettier that way. He said he’d do that last month; don’t mention it again, you’re prettier that way.)

If a survival tactic is to believe you are less worthwhile, are you still surviving?

I should have loved you more from the get-go. You were my baby girl, and I thought you’d save me, because I was young and dumb and lonely. I was so glad you were a girl. I was so glad you were a girl.

You were sick right away and then the treatment was to feed you through a tube that didn’t fill your belly at all. You were sick and I couldn’t feed you, and all your food turned to dust in my tits, and I became worthless and you cried and cried and I couldn’t feed you, and you weren’t actually starving, they all said that to me, they’d smile indulgently as you screamed, so small and already you were a joke, you were a joke, I was a joke, why would I keep crying? The doctor just told me you were fine was I stupid? Was I stupid??

I turned it all off and it was so hard to turn it back on, after. I tried so hard, baby girl.

You don’t work, you don’t clean, you don’t mother, what’s the point of you?

Dried up to dust and what’s the point of it, then?

I hope you are ugly and it doesn’t break you. I hope you hurt from it, because they tell you that’s all you’re good for, because they will, I can’t stop that, but that instead of shutting down you get angry and you figure out how else to prove your worth. You’re so smart. You’re so smart, and you’re less pretty that way, and I’m so scared–

Hurt doesn’t have to break you. It doesn’t have to, baby. I wish–

It’s too late already. You proudly say you’re the tallest in the special math class they put you in, the one for kids who are smart, the one that’s just boys, and you. You stop, look up, ask me, am I pretty? I want to break the whole fucking world for you.

(Give up! You’re prettier that way.)

If you’re ugly, they might leave you alone.

The men outside the meeting smoke and chat, and they are sober and spiritual and holy in their lives and whenever a woman passes they rate her on a scale from one to ten. You can’t call them on this. They’ll smirk and tell you you’re taking their inventory, why don’t you focus on yourself, doll?

I’m so tired.

I work now in a field dominated by women, and still, the one man in morning meeting fills the most time. He talks and we listen. He interrupts and talks, and we smile and cringe, exchange glances, but we know it’s time to be quiet. A man is talking.

He leaves and we go back to work.

(This is a joke, right? This shit’s so funny. Look at us, being angry.)

It’s a modern day and I can work full time. I can work full time, I can come home and take the baby so he can go outside and take a break, make dinner then so he can take a break, it was a hard day for him. All day he had to do what I did when I was a free-loader, not working, staying home and not cleaning enough. He walks through the streets with the baby on his chest and people stop him, tell him what a wonderful father he is, offer him baby clothes they just bought, give him money, tell him what an amazing father he is–

(I clean on weekends when I have the energy and he’s not in a bad mood. I clean and by Tuesday it’s worse than it was before. I clean after work during the week, sometimes, but there’s never enough of me to–)

it’s hard! It’s hard to be the parent who stays with the baby!

(You’ll miss it when he’s grown! They’re only this cute for so long, haha!)

Night comes and I’ve gotten you and your brother to sleep and I’m tired but I have to remember to not say so, to not suggest I’m doing too much, to not give him the idea that he hasn’t done more. He must have done more, right?

Right?

Right?

Today was a good day. I saved a piece of myself. It’s alive still, bright and warm in the pit of my stomach. Safe, for now. I woke up early, and I could write, and the baby’s asleep in his own bed. You’re asleep in your own bed, and you like Jurassic Park and princesses and someday you want to be a singer, but if you don’t make enough money maybe after that you’ll be president, or perhaps a princess. Or maybe an architect. Maybe, if you have enough time.

You never want to get married. You never want to have more than two kids.

You stopped in the middle of your homework. It wasn’t because you didn’t know; you’d been flying through it. You stopped and looked up at me, and asked, Am I pretty?

He’s in our bed. He’s been quiet, lately. He’s been getting angry again.

He used to sing to me, voice bellowing, loud, and it was funny and charming and it made me happy. I had you and failed, though. I had you, baby girl, and he loved you immediately and I couldn’t feel anything at all, it all hurt too much, and when we got home I was far, far away and hurt, and I didn’t make what he wanted real fast enough, my sickness robbed him of something, how dare I, and–

Tell me what to do.

_{When am I pretty enough?}