I keep up correspondence. My fingers inked and pressed upon stationary colored with butterflies. A log of (new) scars acquired while trying to be domesticated, in the kitchen with a bull. Blade-burns, I should have been born a boy or not all. The bull glares--my biology is the mark of evil. Spots of red--my vindictive rage--a pipe that needs repair. I've stitched my lips tight, blue-black fingertips, the thread tugging my tender mouth. My letters silently coded. How I've changed, or not at all.