suddenly there is a fake yellow light slashing its way through the backs of my eyes. my face had been turned all sideways to stare at the lonely blue-patterned wallpaper and everything feels icy and laced with chemicals that don't pierce through all the dirt, so it lies there, coating my arms and reflecting my eyes. stitching my gaze all around the room, i rest my careful eyes on the leaves of my life blowing in the wind, hidden there in the corners of everything. the leaves are dying, you know. dying, all blown around the edges and the green creeping out of their insides. my arms look sick yellow and i keep thinking that everything feels like it's dying over and over again. i never thought so much death could begin and end in one small room with only one window to breathe through, with all these cold-blooded tiles.
my house and my stomach are hollow and empty, every essence that lingers inside them thrown right down the drain and left somewhere in the metal bowels to stagnate and drop.
i lift my marble legs straight up till i am level with the sink, and i spread cool drops over my sunken face. well there's prickled stubble scampering across the panes of my young & dumb face, hung-over, wrought-out.
she's all dead and gone with the leaves, i think. my little plastic lover, my hollographic dreamgirl. she left in a milky blue car last night and when it got smaller the road looked like her spine and the car was the chip i knew was there, keeping her heart all plastic and hard. i shudder out down the rickety stairs, the very own spine of my yellow old house, past the bedroom my parents had deserted for a nice hotel in rusty Missoula. they'd left me all alone in a growing house with chipped bones and that one plastic lover. five pints, six pints, seven hundred of pints of ale later and i woke on the floor. the stairs now cave in slowly at the weight of my pretty disappointment. i've eaten them one by one.
i left my brain on the bathroom floor and my heart in my stomach. you see, she had a way of making her plastic feel like living skin and tiny bones. she, she, she, me. not me. not enough, too much, so mud-caked in bathrooms. i don't know how long i've been here. been awake.
sleep and death are the only calling lovers now that
she's all ghostly and i'm brainless, drained in blue test tubes. i used to be alive.
i used to be alive.
i used to be alive.
later, after the chemicals pierce my veins, i'm dead again.
funny thing is, this time it's in the dark kitchen
but the leaves are still there, deader & deader.