the flowery, transparent lace scoping up from behind me and ending at my waist. when he pushes his hand and cups the skin, i feel emptier than i was after the dinner i had, mounds of rice and bean scoops as your forehead pressed against the mesa and you said you loved her. at midnight, the blue bathroom tile bruises my forehead and i kiss it, lips against mold and mildew. the next morning, you say i am not ***** and i mumble yes, pinching milk-soaked cornflakes from my cereal bowl between my fingertips and placing them on my tongue.