Stop asking me if I like you. I don’t know—I don’t think I ever will. And that’s fine with me. All I know is your reflection buried under the dust mites smudged on the mirror. I live in rented apartments with bugs scattered evenly around. You live in the articles that I never approved of. You live in silence hoping for someone to bring out the beast in you. You stay quietly around the corner. Observing every conversation. But you never initiate one. You never become the bear with claws. Rip their articles up. I see them still in my dresser drawer. Rip your teeth out. You still bite viciously through that fragment of paper.