I wanted to tell you how I let the half-inch-high white porcelain rabbit, the one I tore off my sister’s fourth grade diorama,  fall off my night stand – snapping his perky ear clean off.  I wanted to tell you how I don’t give enough of a shit to glue it back on.

I wanted to tell you how my feet get tangled in the phone wires – metaphorically speaking, of course – but I also wanted to tell you that I’m comfortable with that.

I wanted to tell you that I sometimes paint glitter on my nails, then think twice and reach for the acetone.

I wanted to tell you about my “dusted rose” scars, and my “eggshell white” scars, and the lump on my left thumb that lacks a fingerprint.

I wanted to tell you how Orion’s belt skips down the bridge of my nose, and how many of my “beauty marks” have faded so quickly away.

I wanted to tell you how I still blame myself for thoughts I had fourteen years ago.

But I won’t tell you, and you won’t know.