We give them names. Because we want to understand. We can't, of course, not really. But there they are, somehow, locked behind the hollow of my throat. I rest one finger there, softly, feel my own tender skin beneath my fingertip. Feel the thin pulse of blood, the unspilled saline thickness. I am sure it must have a name, but I cannot name it.
Books line the shelves. Gray shadows blur their edges. I try to find the names in these words. Tell me, I beg, but they remain closed and silent in the dark despite my pleas. I want to tear the pages out but I don't dare. I am frantic, desperate, hot blood and hot salt and hot skin.
I cannot name it, and so I no longer try, and there is a comfort in acquiescence.
