You left messages everywhere.
Mattress worked half off the bed, belly splayed, guts spiraling out. The floor is a landfill of misplaced screws, fingernail clippings, and busted light bulbs. One of your letters spills off the page, across the bedroom wall:
The nightstand vomited, sending up orphaned remotes and more papers; a cherry chapstick with no cap lays exposed on the soiled carpet. Anger glares in long, pained letters streaking down the wall beside the window:
g o d
i s a M O N S T E R
And around the corner, to where I’m standing now:
w i t h o u t a
m i r r o r
Someone stole god’s mirror from the bathroom. Mystery solved. The towels and shower items are gone, too. They left the floss as a ransom note. A tampon in the corner looks like a slain mouse against the white linoleum.
You sold the trash can for scraps. Replaced it with a cardboard box overflowing with wads of stiff toilet paper. Cotton balls stained with fingernail polish.
There’s a syringe on the counter. Hanging over the edge of the cardboard box like a hand towel is a sad, purple condom.
I’m so sorry.
The room grows still, silent. Close my eyes and count for thunder:
My feet move quick. Something in my stomach feels off. I’m down the hall a heartbeat later, watching her chest move.
Rise. Fall. Breathing.
Candles weep over every shelf and mantle, leaking time forward, onward. Downward.
The worm makes a whimpering sound and extends her hand, but her eyes are closed. She must be out of batteries.
My watch puts 7 minutes on the sirens and I still don’t have what I came here for. My mind is a river of static and this room is a bridge to nowhere.
The sleeping child, thin and larval. A worm napping on leaves. Fuck’s sake. None of this is real. I’m sleeping. We never came here. We never got so lost.
Did you know I’d find her?
Where are you?