The hungry feed on the desperate.
I twist the drainer and turn on the faucet.
Hear the rush of pounding water.
I hang up the phone.
Tonight, I feel like Cleopatra.
I walk back to the the circular wooden table in the living room.
On it, there's a laptop, a basket filled with fake fruit, along
with numerous books, pens, and key-cards. I pick one of the cards
up, use it to play with the powder until I like the way it looks.
I grab a cut-in pen cap from the floor, place a bit of the top of it in
my nostril and snort a line.
Glass and sawdust and dried up blood.
It feels like five thousand crushed mirrors in the back of my throat.
I walk back to the bathroom,
and slide into the water toes first,
ballerina style. I let my face warm,
shoulders slide down, hair unravel,
my makeup drip and dissolve;
the filth and carmine quietly deliquate.
I keep one arm dry to light up a cigarette,
lazily watch the smoke and steam rise.
Inhale, exhale. White noise.
I close my eyes. I see melting stars,
barbwire veins, heavy metal lavender clouds.
I wish I could fall asleep. Hypnagogia comes close
enough: pacifying lullabies, excerpts of esoteric conversations,
evanescent whispers.
The white noise soothes me.
I throw a bath bomb into the bottom of the bath
where it is already hot, it staying on the ground
but bringing its explosions to the top.
A new magenta pink ocean.
I wipe my face with a towel,
leaving a not-so-mysterious set of stains consisting of
two black spots and what looks like a rose-colored kiss some length below.
Something like a party favor, I guess.
I cover my body with a scrub of miniature crushed pearls,
the ceiling the color of a smeared orange sunset.
My eyes go blank in darkness and sleep,
canopied under lashes.