We were our own animals. You and I. Our apartment was always a fever dream. We slept on the same mattress your father slept on before he died. We woke without really knowing where we were. Those mornings were never quiet. We were the worst kind of poor. "You actually should keep more secrets to yourself," you said. Soon we were sleeping differently, in different rooms. You were cutting your hair over the kitchen sink. You were moving pictures on the walls and rearranging the furniture. I was sitting at the kitchen table, staying quiet. The roof leaked rain and the pilot light was out. I was locking doors. The neighbors never screamed like us. Nobody screamed like us. We tried to eat dinner together and you threw a plate against the wall. There was spaghetti sauce on the curtains. We became all hands and teeth. We became some slow violence. We tried to sleep in the same bed again. We were forever vacant. And, listen, just listen for a second, we won’t worry about any of that. Because when we had that home, when we had that home together, we got to see what a home really was.