Would I be different if I woke up in the body of a baker who lives on fifth street above his oven and glass cases of oatmeal cookies in line like soldiers?

Would they still call me ‘Sarah’ or would there be a girl who eats apple cores only dormant in the feelings of doubt on the ledge of a Sunday night before the cherry pies are done baking?

Have I been a refuge? An interior designer who eats the same Thai food every Wednesday with a man that she’s in love with but never works up the courage to speak to?

Have I owned a laundry mat with a pac man arcade machine in the far left corner?

Have I pulled the trigger of a gun and felt regret? Not me, not me.

I woke up this morning in the burnt thumbs of a baker who remembers only sometimes that he was a girl who baked lemon squares who remembers only sometimes that he’s been everyone and no one each morning.