Today I collect a census to see who knows if I’m the man, the victim, or if I’ve become a human torso filled with plastic bags. The gentleman on my left says he needs more information. He asks what color my nipples are. I ask him if he, too, would like to meet my blood. He hands me his card.

My police reports are written on small, pink slips. My police reports explicitly state FOLKS WON’T LIKE TO HEAR ABOUT THIS so I talk instead about my nipples, which everyone has questions about.

My police reports have the weighty feel of fresh money from the bank. They stick together and I panic, but no, I thumb the corners and shuffle them, one two three.

Every night before bed I read my police reports. Sometimes I recreate the interrogation. Sometimes I get drunk and wonder at what point I am too drunk to be listened to. I get drunk and shout out my window. I ask the neighborhood if they can hear me say no or if that is too quiet. I yell at the neighborhood to get off of me, to stop sweating onto my skin. I wake up in the middle of the night with my police reports under my pillow. Anxious Diva, slinking wolf, please file these away, please don’t tell me where they are. I want to happen upon them once when I’m not thinking, like during dinner, an applause, or my honeymoon.