There are things passed down to me from gene pools and chromosomes like bristle-hair and brown eyes, cow eyes, slanted and almond- sweet, a vanilla-skin thin like rice paper, skin and bones and load-bearing hips and this, this proclivity to doubt and anxiety that feeds on pills on attention on and on from birth, from him, her, habits broken into me of doubletongue and inbetween and straddling this or that, her side, his side, where is mine but lost in the rights of first trial, maybe some error because first counts as practice, that pitch-hair, the mudflat eyes set in tinted vellum-hide, what did I get from them but too-yellow, too-white, where is my middle ground, earthquaking because the things that passed down were not the things I wanted.