Zoë Fay-StindtCan you claim the word others hold above their heads like a flag, or tuck between gum and lip like gone-bad snuff, molding. You try to find other words, try prefacing it with date or softening its letters: assault, the double s letting it slip and curl, a piece of silk wrinkling to the floor. There was no knife, nobody held your body down. Only words failed you, a small procession. Solemn, polite ants: no, or even not tonight, still somehow promising,making an offer, your unbloodied hands palm-up.Eventually, your guilty teeth opened.