All the little voices, they are small and blue, and they crawl in the bathrooms where no one is asking. Where no one is asking, they stretch on the floors and they do all the asking. They beg on their backs for a god in the ceilings, to take from their mouths the poisonous blue. To pull up the ground through their soft yellow bellies. They beg to lay down on floors, where no one is looking. they beg to be cleaned off the floors while no one is watching. To emerge from the wounds with skin that shows nothing. Skin to seal, not to show.  Look for the tails of little moons, hiding violent blue so small you will wonder. Under the doors, they slip under the floors. You will never know them in your shoes. You would have  to have nothing to walk that far without any shoes. You will know something is missing, while they are in the next room washing your dishes. You will ignore them to ponder what you are missing. They live in the bathroom with a woman in a yellow rubber glove. If you knew who was missing, you would take her hand from the toilet, and pull off that glove. She would smile when you turned up her palm to study her hand. She is the map of who is missing. Trace her steps from the bathroom to the door.