And oh, the hangnail will not fall off gracefully. And oh, the cars drift listlessly, list less, ripping the skin of sleep off just as it gathers. And oh, that night we talked all night I was only speaking with half my tongue. The other half was folded like underthings in a tiny cage that hung in the cavity of my ribs. Did you hear the rattling in my chest when we slept?  Did you wonder how many tongues I had folded up inside? Were you frightened at how it might sound if I ever learned to speak with all of myself?