Does your past self nestle inside you, like a matryoshka doll? Like tree rings? My past threw me up on the doorstep. I'm the raw wet thing that crawled out of her withering shell. She cracked in the sun and she cracked on the concrete sidewalk and there I am, bleeding, glistening. Withering. Splitting. Hunched over retching and I don't know what's crawling out.