Mary’s cut-off <small>FUCK THE HELL OUT OF BEN</small> t-shirt barely covered her fine, pale ribcage. Her green plaid boxers loosely covered half of the second installment of the poem she had carved into her thigh three days before. Last night Gwen had reverently traced the raised, healing words with her fingertips, then ever so lightly, trembling, with her lips: > thrashing in the dark. Inside you > there’s an artist you don’t know about