I win the science fair, not with a volcano but a geyser spewing out marshmallow fluff. I am awarded a certificate and march proudly onto the cafeteria stage while dads with iPads chant my name.

Then I am sixteen years old and the best thing anyone has ever come across. The boy at the gas station does not even look me up and down before sliding a pack of menthols across the table per my request, his digits scribbled at the bottom of the receipt. I read books about old Hollywood, and write names of boys in the margins of my class notes. Boys I haven't kissed yet, and don't really plan on kissing.

I write songs about events that haven't happened. In line for the DMV, I compose a sonnet about the color green. The woman at the counter drums her nails several times before saying my name. I don't know how to take care of myself without letting my pride get in the way, so I carve out a hole in my chest and leave it for the painful parts.

I get an apartment in midtown with my parents' money. I kiss a brunette with curly hair and the largest eyes I've ever seen, and we go stare at paintings for an afternoon. I tell her I'm only looking at her, and she rolls her eyes with movie star timing. I can't be bothered to plant a garden in my chest when I can't even remember to water the plants on my window sill. The brunette says she is leaving, going back to the west coast. I decide to spend an entire month learning how to play my favorite songs on guitar. I begin to develop calluses, but not before I've ruined my fingertips so badly that they bleed on the marble counter at the nail salon.

I invite a man over for the first time. He speaks broken English, having just moved from Seoul to finish his degree. I decide it's perfect. I read him part of the horror fiction draft I'm working on, translating the good parts only, and then we make love on my balcony.

I think about dying my hair red, but in the aisle of the CVS a woman with an opalite necklace says "don't do it, you have such beautiful hair" so I don't. I stop writing in my journal when it becomes too much of a hassle. I call my best friend, telling her how much I miss her. She shows me her herb garden and I ask her for tips because I've never kept anything alive.

I hate criticism, and it haunts me like a flesh-eating monster, eating away at what I've worked so hard to keep safe. I leave my MFA workshop feeling defeated, and the man at the Chipotle asks if everything is okay. All I can do is sigh and let out a whimper. He doesn't charge me for extra guac.

I wonder why I haven't given up yet. How I can keep pushing it all down and not say a word. The brunette texts me. Says she's back in the city. I don't answer, because my plants are dying and I need to go buy more fertilizer. My father asks me when I'm going to get a job, and sighs heavily through the phone when I tell him I've been trying. I go back to writing on the balcony and cry a little because I am frustrated with my ending. I have no idea how it will all turn out.

I'm nearing the part where the monster is born. Where it rises up from a spark ignited, from a chemical mixture of lead and human tissue. I go make another coffee, even though the sun has already begun to set. It extends its arms in one final sweep, waving to a gaggle of teen girls shrieking outside on the street. The stars appear like a first snowfall. I can only see two through the thick clouds descending over the city. Maybe they're part of Cassiopeia's throne.

In another universe, I have already written the story. It isn't perfect, or anywhere close. But my advisor calls it "earnest" and "honest prose" among other things. The hole in my chest is full of something. Maybe lavender, because it eases anxiety. I meet a boy at the bar and kiss him, but I don't need to go home with him. I don't need to post the photos either, to know that I am really alive. I just know I am, and that I'm safe in my skin. I cry at the theater, and call people on the phone. I no longer need to feel sad to know that I exist.