I wake up.
Put some sort of lotion on my skin.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.