I blamed myself. That's what made the blunt needle, oofed through scar tissue, the dose estimated, a blink from overdose, the toilet floor rising from between my pale thighs, rising to my forehead. The bruise a shadow hid by swinging wheaten tresses. This is my mask, my bulletproof armoury. The daughter of a policeman, the magic last name, a code to rip up tickets, to scribble out the report. I found my way in early in the hyper-coloured, thickly emotional days of new-teen breasts and swollen hips. Power, finally, surprising, the way each foot hit sidewalk, the swing of ass in little shorts. Innocent eyes that made men squirm, the uncomfortable overlap of forbidden fantasy and sober midday bright, sunshiney reality.