the sandwich on the kitchen counter has rot between the slices of bread. there's juice in a glass and the grout on the floor is stained a deep red.
pin prick needle point trail marks litter the skin. not a single set of veins remains uncollapsed.
don't you see what you've done?
cobalt lips and charcoal cheeks. this isn't a mortuary. it's your kitchen. the sink faucet is left running. your landlord won't like that.
wake up.
wake up.
wake up.
why won't you wake up?
your face is frigid. you're sweating. what have you done?
there's no one to eat your sandwich when you're in the mortuary. no one to drink your juice when the autopsy results unveil irrefutable proof of a dance entwined with the white horse. china white. the dragon. the beast. thunder.
nobody deceives like a prisoner to substance. nobody knows you're dead.
it's okay.
you're in your kitchen. here, i fixed you a sandwich. drink your juice. you're okay.
