When you were younger, there existed a progression of nights spent at other people’s houses. Their houses were always sticky. There came a numbness; but first, hot pain. Words like why didn’t exist. It was difficult to go swimming. You followed the others to the forest to sleep in truck beds. You hated the smell of cologne, cigarettes, beer, weed. A sickly-sweet quality clung persistently about the men – driving all that way, charmlessly urgent. No hospital trips. You remember ash and gummy worms. Holes in your pants and shoes. Scars on your knees and then some. You stole from other people’s mothers. Bought tests, gauze, espresso. Slick night, hanging your body outside of the car; men called you baby, teachers blamed you. Now, the memories are slippery. Your body reflects a ghost on the ceiling. Mold spreads across your childhood bed. You grasp at the sheets. They slide, like shampoo foam, through your fingertips.