Stackable photograph keychain holds dad's picture firmly in place. It's something I take behind me like a broken pillow, not for the memory or feeling but as an exchange for the parts of me that don't match the me she sees. 

Bathroom door opens and I'm caught, the line between my fear and her face dotted with lies, rules I tell myself to stop from being whole. My dream of me breaks apart like lemons. I offer my keychain, sealed, smooth.