Nausea, as soon as I read the first few lines. Raging, rigid waves of self-doubt followed by actual nausea, vertigo, watching the stanza swirl, distort with the ever-widening distance between it and me. I will never write like this. I can never write like this. Who am I but a silly little girl who plays at art..

It's not just this. It's not just this that prevents me from reading my own medium. It's that my body rebels. It's that I wept on the way to Copenhagen, with Alice Major in one hand and New Yorker poetry in the other. It's that I weep now, in transit, as they shoot darts in my eyes.