Perhaps I’ve never gotten over anything. I am asked to write about memories, and somehow the only ones that flood my mind are tinged with the bitterness of bile and a dark gray haze. I am a child in most of them. I can no longer see or feel that version of myself, yet I am aware of its presence, curled up in a crib of raised voices and handprints marked on warm, bruised skin. These are the moments that meld together into a sticky, mutating clump of twitching aversion. A ball of tar that leaks from the holes in my colander skull, gnashing calcium at its base eroded by half a life of SSRIs and fingers down my throat. Even then, I feel these events only in latex-coated tension, in dulled points of contact on parts of my body that have forgotten they exist until this very moment. Example: Sharp metals inflate the area behind my oesophagus against my spine and stretch my diaphragm taut; sharp tongues fill up my lungs with saltwater that bubbles up and spills out from my eye sockets.