I don’t know what state we are in.

   We have been driving for days, not quite stopping anywhere, delirious in the promise of road. We stop at an internet cafe, picking up food and using the rest room. While we have the opportunity, I go onto the computer and open my email.

    Mom,

     I know that I was supposed to be the perfect one. Grace was the fuck up and I was supposed to be crafted of golden, perfect as the sun, worthy of the blessing of the heavens. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t be that. I wanted to but I just can’t. Because the truth is, I’m just as fucked up as Grace is. Maybe I’m more. And I’m scared about everything because I don’t know who I am. I am who you wanted me to be, but nothing else, and I hate that person. I look into the mirror and . . . and I just see hair and eyes and lips. I don’t see me. Just someone.

    I promise I’ll be back. Maybe not today or tomorrow or any time soon. But I will be home and I am safe. I’m sorry if I scared you, but I need to do this. After everything you’ve put me through, after every way you’ve broken me in the hopes to put me together in the way you wanted, I’ll hope you’ll trust me enough to know I need this. Please don’t come after me.

-Bliss