I am ten years old. My favorite game to play is Outdoor Survival. Teachers write on my report card that I work well independently, but not with others.

At home, I tear flowers from my mothers garden. Make salad from roots and stems, perfume from plucked petals. Bathe in the sewer. Remember- you are cleaner than the water that comforts you.

Take off the dogs collar. Call her wolf. When your belly mutters, do not go inside. When chopped up dandelions do not quiet the childish whine of hunger, stay outside.

Dig a hole in the dirt beside the porch. Sleep under a heavy blanket of mulch. Wonder if it is piled too high to get out of, but not in a worried way, just a curious way.

Wonder if your mother knows you have left. Assume she is still on the phone with someone who is more important than you.

Looking back, I wonder why survival was my entertainment of choice- if anorexia has always been mutely boiling inside of me. If, even then, there was a reason I mistook my stomachs siren for audience applause. Why I was so proud- I came inside only to brag to my mother,

Look, Mom. Look how little I can get by on!