There is a song that goes, “I kept the faith just like I was supposed to. I prayed for you” and I did. Pray for you, that is.

Until I grew up. To a world that knew exactly where I belonged. At the bottom. And my parents agreed and my friends when they finally showed up, they averted their eyes from me like I was roadkill and I. I prayed for you, once. When I still thought I might grow up to be pretty.

I did not grow up to be pretty. I grew up twisted, thwarted by rage and disfigured by my own hatred. With nowhere else to go, the rage I felt became a weapon I dug into my very own skin, again and again.

There is another version of me. I know it. She went to Brown then Columbia. She majored in political science. She worked her way through college. She visited her family on the weekends. She found you while earning her doctorate at NYU.

That girl knows who she is. That self knowledge was never taken from her.

I would have liked to give her to you. That girl. I would have liked to give her to me, too.

In another life. With other parents. In a world without antisemitism or sexism or classism. A world so close I can touch it sometimes.

But I was born to this world. Into this body that had these experiences. Into this identity that I have been told my entire life is worth less than you. Or any girl you have ever dated.

Those girls who looked in the mirror and said, I hope I don’t get fat. Am I fat?