I type my prose and my poems in blank email templates from eight-am until five-pm. I hide my tattoos under tailored power suits. I hide the paint splatter on my thighs with thick black tights. I don’t sleep well in the dry heat and dusty air of my bedroom and my eyes are bloodshot from all of it. I wear padded bras and suck in my belly. Only a few people know which of the men in this building I’ve slept next to. The rest only speculate. They are the sea and I feel as big as the moon. I manipulate them to the point where I can’t tell if they’re coming or going. The daily push and pull. Quicksand. Black and deep. Papercuts over the webs between my fingers. We’re not so evolved as we think. We punch clocks for fucks sake. When they glance over my shoulders they can smell my perfume and they assume that this stream of wrecked thoughts is an angry letter to Whom It May Concern. I blast Ani Difranco as loud as I can get away with. My ears are stuffed full of lint from this sweater. I’d rather be at home and naked. Or at very least, topless with one of these men, after hours and avoiding the security cameras that we’re almost positive are fake by now. If they weren’t, I may not have this carpal tunnel or this overwhelming need to cover my scars and pin my hair back from my cheeks.