how the skin at my temples peeled away like parchment; how I shunned milk, butter, ice cream, bread; how it never was about being thin; how bruises bloomed their tender midnight between my knees; how my voice starved, too; how winter’s steel fingers pressed ice into my bones; how I tried to shed my innermost parts, coiled heavy and shameful; how it still haunts me; how I’m glad you didn’t know me back then; how you’d have stopped, aghast, if we’d passed in the street; how I’d have held you with hollow eyes; how I’d have dared you to understand.