Today they scratched me from sleep, nails unhinged, carving my name in cement. Ash stains my pillow and bruises the shape of spiders climb my neck. Sunlight catches dust and broken glances between strangers dodging desert puddles of something metallic. I’m highly contagious, quarantined to another body I’ve since infected. I will sleep into you if you hold me too tightly. I assemble your letters, left torn in the pocket of a hospital gown. I stain the paper with sweat. I’m beginning to steal your voice. The voice that lies, dying in the dog park.