The men I have given myself to are scorching a map onto my skin. I’d say it was a map of the underworld, but I don’t know if that’s altogether true. It seems too dramatic, too much like fantasy. And yet … when I imagine the map and the industry of fingerprints which have gone into making it, I cannot find myself there. I am a paper town on the edge of a necessary nowhere, a tactic and declaration meant to divert infringement and violation. When I was younger, much younger than I am now, I would look in the mirror at the bones in my upper back sticking out like sharks fins, and I’d imagine they were angelwings waiting to announce themselves and break through my skin. This didn’t happen. I filled out and the sharks fins receded into the expanded territory of flesh, into my growth. Now my body has become night-Braille for eyeless men. I am a far cry from angelwings. These things children think and go on thinking living inside you like a depleted chorus of winter crickets.