Lovebug

The hand that breaks me

They giggle in the front seats.
Whispering.
Bringing me to an unknown location.
In the car of a flavescent haired stranger.

I'm not sure where my phone is.
I've never lost it.
I'm breaking routine more than I ever have.

Had no time to brush my teeth.
No time to brush my hair.
No time to check the news.
Unplug the clock.
No time.
No time.
No time.
No time.
No time.
I'm looping.

I start to sweat.
I start to pick at my scalp.
Pulling the dry skin off every strand of hair.
Skin.

At 9:40 I start to panic.
At 9:41 I am panicking.

My lap is sprinkled with flakes of dry skin.
I feel every milliliter of blood in my body.
Every cell.
Every atom that makes me.
I feel them all shake.
I feel them in my stomach.
I feel my lungs, starting to struggle.

Why are you doing this?
This is a stranger.
Two strangers.
Bringing you to a strange place.
You are the only strange thing allowed in your life.
You don't know Ruth.
You don't trust Ruth.
Ruth put vodka in your coffee at 9 in the morning.
You're buzzing, aren't you?

This is a dream.

My skin is tingling.
My skin is wet.
I am covered in flakes of skin.
I am nothing but skin.
I am nothing but skin.
I am nothing but skin.
I want to see the bones in the hand that breaks me.
I want to make sure all the blood is still there.

This can't be a dream.
I am feeling too hard.
I am feeling everything.

I am dead.
I must be dead.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I am dead and this is hell.

I am covered in sweat.
I am falling.
Sinking.
It isn't pleasant.
It isn't a drunken sinking.
It is a rapid, terrifying fall.
A fall through the car, through the concrete.
A fall into the earth.
Through the dirt.
I'm dead.

I'm not.

But I could be.

I'm not.

But I will be.