I write for myself but I hate my handwriting. Ugly scrawls I have to strain my blind eyes to reread. Scribbled betrayals of bodymind. My hands were my body’s first betrayers. No. That’s not right. My hands were the first betrayers I remember. My feet were first; but I can write without feet. My brain, my tiny migraine brain forcing vomit in kindergarten. Down the front of my white shirt with the dalmatian on the front. Dalmatian and vomit. “Maybe she needs glasses.” But no. It’s trauma I mean, yes, glasses too, but trauma causes vomit. And bruises. But a body that bruises this easily is easy to blame. Legs covered in bruises were the first betrayers. Feet & hands & tiny migraine brain & blind eyes & bruise purple legs have betrayed me long enough.