Thirty-one years of hard cover versions of me.
Kitten in the tulips: ten, my first one ever.
Medieval unicorn princess tapestry: eighteen,
going off to a new magical land. Cats
in cowboy hats with lassos: much older
than I’d care to admit. Inside is the same
refrain in different voices— wouldn’t it
be cool if—these people suck—why am I not
already all I want to be? The details make me think 
I’m not lying, unless I was lying then, preparing
for a later me to read back in sympathy
with the girl writing fears on a sheetless bed.
But no, I wasn’t that crafty, besides I was convinced
I’d never make it out of there alive.