The Bones of You might have been The Bones of Me. Because so much of what sits under this surface comes from my own childhood. Small fragments that refuse to disappear. Bits of color. Patterns. Cuts.
You never get to decide in advance what stays with you and what fades. What will become a detail you can name, and what will just live in your body as a mood, a reflex, a sharp edge. The parts that carry you.