There are monsters on the early tram and I am one of them. I’ve been shivering down Brunswick street leaving a trail of hairpins in my wake. I am a child when I ring you like I never quite learned to apologise for myself. Despite all that practice. That night he unlocked me and we tilted together around corners. Bullies bully themselves, he’d said. The photo you sent: a row of crows on the wire behind your sister’s house, each etches a black hole in the hot white, fourteen voids, a perforation, tear here. The only beauty is that I fear crows, that I too rest on wires, stuck on the sensation of almost always falling. I don’t know why you think of me. I don’t know why life bends beneath my weight. The phone and you are in my hand slipping. To carve a place takes years. To marvel at the rules of biology, that starving things consume themselves. Let me get home as day breaks and wonder about the person I am, let me be a drifter, a wrecker, a tangled mass of morals.