I am seven, and I have never known the exact number of shoes that I own. I have lots. I don't know where they come from. I have never wanted for manufactured warmth in a cold house because the heat never runs out. When I play too hard and my socks develop holes, I throw them away and continue to roll in the dirt. New socks always show up in the morning anyways. I am seven, and I am fortunate.

I wake up groggy one morning and stumble out of bed. It's March, and everything outside is covered in a faint dusting of yellow. I fucking hate pollen, but even that is a contributor to my existence. I take a seat at the end of my bed and throw my body back down, wallowing for a moment in my sheets. I kind of want to check my phone. Where is it? I find it somewhere towards the center of my bed; it has sunk down into the body-shaped hole that is a product of my unwillingness to flip my mattress. The bed and I are one at night when we spend 9 hours molding together, only for me to rip myself away come morning.