I want to tell her the things I'll tell her when she’s older, but the information terrifies her. In order of importance: she has luna moths in her head, monarch butterflies in her stomach, and a feral fetus in her womb. Her hands are collapse-clasped and folded in her lap; she holds her elbows like wings away from her ribs, ready to flap, to flutter, to fly. I want to tell her to keep one hand in her purse so she can always find her keys, to keep an eye on the door and the door always open so she can run if she doesn't feel safe, but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch red and the tension in her shoulders warns me she's not ready to hea