This is the first thing that comes to mind:
that time when an “important” someone said I wasn’t pretty in not so many words.
This is the second thing that comes to mind:
the things I write are, so often, a sapping showcase of my vulnerability.
This the the third thing that comes to mind:
my poor little dead bird in the soil.
This is the forth:
I cried so much over that dead bird, harder than I’ve cried in years, so hard that I hurt my throat, that my mother said she hasn’t heard me cry that hard since the first time my heart was broken when I was 18 and still a girl.