I came out of it squeaky clean, still scathed from wounds that eat me alive, and yes, I still call them by name. They still never answer, as though I don’t exist, like they never made me bleed and tasted it, saw it on the bed sheets seeping a cry not known. But here I am, as clean as it gets. As clean as I will ever be. Because I still have these cracks where you were once inside deep, when I was worth it, when I was worth it. Then I became empty and I will stay here, so I can feel the way the cracks spread wide like my legs once did.