and my addiction workbook. I learn that the most entrancing kind of mermaid is fish above the waist because no one can hear her speak. I pray through cavewater-filtered sunlight for someone to rescue me from my father and I almost become a real girl myself— It happens when I see a man opportunistically shipwrecking; I return his body to the same shore he started from and renounce my entire sea. When the time comes I will steal back my own voice just to tell the lover all about my love, thus become fully real girl, become no-fish-at-all girl— not one cragged scale between us. Addiction workbook suggests: Erase all scenes where the lover hasn’t kissed you yet and saves you anyway. The lover always gets theirs first is always a clueless trinket collector turning you around in the light so you can better watch their lips call you the wrong name: The water of it feels better inside the mouth. Addiction workbook suggests: Erase all scenes where the father and the jealous witch have different bodies. Remember, under the mythology of their flesh they are both only one trident with the same three tips fitted correctly to the yielding caves between your ribs. Addiction workbook suggests: If the ocean is the childhood erase all of its water the moment you earn your legs. If you want the voice, as well erase almost all guilt on behalf of those exposed fish snapping— briefly— on the sand. Leave only enough regret to keep you human. Look— when parched as a naked rib the whole world becomes the shore where you began and will end.