When you were nothing, your parents cut off the tongue of a horse and showed it to your relatives as a gender reveal. They ate dissected guavas from the supermarket. Your fifth birthday, you took off your shirt like a boy at the pool and ran down the block. Mother’s screaming behind you. Magenta in the mere footprints of the wind, the same color as your clothes; an alternative. Now you investigate the branches. Hear paper leaves shivering, testing their fruits. Some fall like frozen iguanas, candescent like the sequins on a mini dress. Pink fingers frost a tree’s tangled intestines in preparation for the reaping. Pretend by fidgeting your own. Wonder if that’s why you found an ice cube in your chest after refusing to climb down the sycamore. The neighborhood boys could see straight up your skirt; even while wearing skin, lace was the only thing blushing. Lifespans dot the ground as they hit: How long. What age. Doze off to ambiance and question the relative danger of living amidst the invisible. Reconsider the shiv of your mother’s voice; femininity dripping in stallion’s blood. A transaction flayed to the colored bone.