Desire hangs inappropriate pictures of pencils on my aging walls, and evidence of knives on my porcelain wrist. I wear pink like a lanyard of honor to show there’s felt underneath my smooth, silken skin. Along the road to perdition, I dropped my glasses. Deftly, Deference picked them up and put them on. She said she could smell numbers. Spicy scent of 2, linger over us like the shrouded lingerie I wear that gets as close to my flesh as it can without ever touching me. I follow him from room to room, not the haunting he thought he was getting, but a personalized ghost nonetheless