I have terrible vision. I’ve always had terrible vision. When I was 7 my mother took me to the optometrist with little reading charts plastered with E’s. “Point in the right direction” she would say. I could barely tell left from right. Like tiny claws that touched me, scratched me, and only left me with my mother’s disappointing face after realizing my vision decreased again. So we got glasses: rectangular and brown. But they made my thighs look like swollen sausages, the kind they only sell in bulk at Costco. So I spent three nights drawing little flowers to cover up the weird edges. But they were too small, the colors were too light, the petals were crooked, and I could only focus on the skin on my belly rolling into layers one on top of the other, like a thick and heavy blanket that draped down to my ankles. I refused to wear glasses. My mother took me back to the optometrist a couple of weeks later. My vision dropped even lower. She was really mad at me. So I said I was sorry that I always stuck my eyes so close into computer screens until I couldn't take the burning feeling. I still refuse to wear glasses. I refuse because I won’t see anything. I refuse because I won’t make out where new eyes are staring. I refuse because my reflection in the mirror will finally remain as a blur.