I get so used to seeing myself that way, and being that way, that it seems impossible to avoid a future where all of it gets revealed, raw and lazy. I won’t complain. Worlds will keep turning. Oceans will not empty. I will look around my corners and see who left themselves behind, aching to blame me for something, to chisel at me with their calcified blemishes. I harden differently. Softness becomes defiance. I feel all in a mossy garden of lies, fantasies.