My memory wears sadness holding all those days of loneliness that formed into pockets stitched under my skin. I remember the swollen tears rolling down my cheeks, drops of hurt. “Stand up straight,” my mom repeated endlessly and dad would come over, manually straightening me up, pressing lightly and pulling my shoulders back. Yet my spine felt sore and bent from the sorrow of the belittling words spewed from the twin’s mouths. Remembering coaxed me to pack my bags, memories spilling out and all making my way until I arrived to the five floor walk-up on West 57th Street. It was time to stand anyway I damn well pleased.