We are tangled together by two yards of baby blue sheets under the bedroom window. Streetlight tattoos our legs in a fried lemon wash. She faces the wall, quivering over a three-dollar towel from Target, still bleeding. I bury my nose into her back and slide my arms under her breasts. She starts crying – her sobs are hiccups on mute, small like raindrops; they shake her shoulders. I comb the ends of her spaghetti hair. I kiss her spine again. She starts talking about my sandpaper palms, the gravel she felt as I laid her down, captured her skin, and split it open. I’m not sure what to say. She talks about the hairs on my arms, the tiny spider feet she sees poking from the bottom of my chin, the way my breath brushed the sweat from her neck, and it all comes out like alphabet soup, trickling from between her pale tomato lips. She talks for as long as she can bear before passing out over the towel, and I wonder, shortly before I fall asleep, if she will have the courage to stay until I wake up.