get off this floor, get dressed and go and buy more; or kill myself.
Actually, either way, I’m going to kill myself. It’s simply a case of how much vodka I drink before I do it.
I take another big mouthful and wait for the pain to be released.
When I wake up again, I am in the same place. Ten minutes have passed, or ten hours—I have no idea.
I move into a fetal position. If I can’t be a corpse, then I wish that I was a baby,
curled up in some other woman’s womb, pure and longed for.
I move slightly, turn my face toward the floor and vomit. It is, I notice, clear and streaked yellowish greenalcohol and bile.
I haven’t eaten for some time.
There are so many liquids and substances inside me, and I try to list them all as I lie here.
There is earwax. The yellow pus that festers inside spots. Blood, mucus, urine, feces, chyme, bile, saliva, tears.
I am a butcher’s shop window of organs, large and small, pink, gray, red.
All of this jumbled inside bones, encased in skin, then covered with fine hair.
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