My tongue is bruised, lash-licked.

The words I've been swallowing.

My needle broke while sewing the splits in my feet. The eye dangled by my thread.

I spotted bad blood between my legs; varicose trails leading from the source to pools between my toes.

It was the kind of conversation that killed time. It was the kind of conversation that killed itself and we forced resuscitating words. She said I'm a nice person to talk to, and it was good talking to me.

I never got her name.