On Aquidneck Island, a single red boat tied to the rocky region like life welded to death. Here my teeth are canoes. On this omnivorous island, waves hunt me on the frigid beaches. The sea breeze, always terse, demands me in my wholeness to dissolve into so much sand. In this way, glass is made. In that way, a mirror is made, in which you can see yourself crying while you think you’re smiling.

Auditioning for a role in my life, I sing the alphabet to the best of my ability. But B runs away first thing, skitters up the Judge’s chair and into her dress. After chasing B out, little F goes next, hiding in a crack between floorboards. I had a friend whose screen name was floorboard611. I always wondered if she was born in the DMV, to think of something that boring. Next, K shimmies down my shift as though I dribbled her, my mouth shining with chance as the lobby of hell opens to a greeting desk staffed by cockroaches and empty wine bottles. Will my audition make the stars sparkle or yawn? Sleepy, the Judge mutters, “Next.”

Drilling into the floor of the abyss, I find a rickety trap door with an old wood stairwell into the basement of iniquity. On the wall, lit by one sanctimonious candle, a cubist portrait of my once soft face. Years of hardened mistakes bake in the heat, unleavened by learning. Rote memorization is necessary before Mariana’s Trench-level analysis. Coldly, the cameras cut away to a scene of my birth on the craggy coast of a shore that will claim me.