& I thought we were done begging

You poke holes in my back & name the configurations. It’s ok, I asked you to. Each one sounds like—I don’t know, Grey, there’s this little thing called shame—but I know they’re all the names we’ll never give to anyone. Between us, we’ve tried them all on. They’re the dull rust hinges that fuse our skulls at the animal brain. They sound like every morning I wake & you don’t.