I see centipedes, or I think I do, out of the corner of my eye when I’m in the basement I lately call home. I catch a shadow on the floor, and my eyes dart into every patch of darkness, every lifeless piece of clothing strewn about. While brushing my teeth, I am distracted by a nail hole in the wall. I am drawing with eyeliner and glance up and there—there. A live one. A couple inches long with flamboyant feelers barely distinguishable from its hair-thin legs. You could comb those legs. Curl those legs. Run your fingers down and through and caress those legs.