I wake up.

Undress.

Shit.

Shower.

Brush teeth.

Wash face.

Put some sort of lotion on my skin.

Some deodorant.

Underwear and bra.

Slip on a vintage velvet dress and some clunky shoes from my High School days…

Black knee high stockings and pull my hair away from my face.

I look green.

Sick.

Something is terribly wrong with me.

I can feel it swimming in my stomach.

I can hear it as I close my apartment door.

It grows as I drive against the sun.

It wants to be birthed, this thing.

I smile and attempt conversations.

Sad attempts.

It’s coming up now, this thing, this fucking feeling of cold damp skin and a beating heart.

I proceed to work, to pretend,

I’m so damn good at pretending.

But it’s dilating, it’s broken and exposed.

I need to go home.

I walk out with class, hoping no one questions me; I can’t imagine talking at this point.

I light a cigarette.

First mistake.

I spiral down, down, down the parking lot, exiting and optimistic that everyone is at work now, and no traffic awaits me.

The detachment from the self begins now.

I can feel my hands on the steering wheel, I can feel the wheels below me turning and I can see the traffic moving in a straight line in front of me.

But I’m nowhere, I’m not there.

My gut and my heart, they’re driving, they’re the ones attempting this drive home.

Inside myself, I chant and remember that it will all be over soon, the feeling of nausea will be replaced by sleep. I will be able to cover my goose-bumped skin into a ball and whine and chatter my teeth until sleep finds me.

Sleep…

I drift and remind myself…

“I want to drown in the zephyr that Los Angeles brings this time of year, and wane into an aftertaste, a scent, a vision and wake up once again in the darkness.”

Nothing like a broken heart and a poisoned gut.