"...schizophrenic kisses in a reflection."

Fade in.

My eyes stick to one another like two slices of wax paper with faltering, yet desperately unable to let go of graveyard-shift-love adhesive.

Shifting sides inside. Shifting sides inside.

I stare at my naked body, as water, or something like it, rains from my head to my feet. Warm. Out of control. Gathering by the drain, mixing with the thoughts that won't fall asleep and the daydreams reserved for night.

My eyes are encased by the steam. My lungs filling with water or something like it.

I hope for a classic horror scene or a twist in a melodramatic rom-com. But nothing is funny nor scary and there is no Norman Bates or Meg Ryan. I am not Billy Crystal. I am unrequited love and future fame stemmed by heartbreak and three thousand miles of, "Please let me forget the broken heart I left in a hotel, by the shore, on the east coast, on a pit of dried firewood, in my parents' home, in my bed, in every book I didn't finish, in every sentence I should have finished."



Fade out.


Wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Josh, how many oxycodone did you take?