Sunrise floods through vertical blinds strong enough to bleed through thick fingers of my aloe.
Mold grows from soil-top deep into the root. I stretch my arms, wipe crust from my eyes just to find you. God, anybody but you.
Eyes red. You didn't sleep. It's been days since you slept. Your pile of cups, stained from old coffee, mingling with cheap liquor bottles. Lying on the floor like the bodies in Normandy. The first thing you say to me, your catch phrase, prodding me with bony fingers, the scars across your arms like scales. Shallow pools under your eyes lingering, you say "you will not last today." I tried to spring to my feet, you held me down. "Sleep," you cooed as my eyelids buckled I believed it best I just lie down. "Spend the day in bed," you said. "It'll be nice," you say "let me have just one more day."
Imagine looking in the mirror and wishing you hadn't