I stare at my reflection until my pupils dilate so much that their icy blue perimeter ceases to exist.
My vision waxes and wanes and blurs at the edges. The edges of my face contort and distort and my stomach flips upside down and inside out. A wet pebble rolls down my left cheek, staining my blotchy pink skin with tiny sparkling pools of melancholy. My lips have swollen to twice their size and my teeth glimmer with a coating of fresh spit. My fingertips trace them carefully. My canines sharpen and morph into fangs. My tongue slices across them and I swallow a speck of my own blood. It tastes like night. I try to count my freckles, but they’re dancing too fast for my eyes. I think they’re running from something. What are they running from? Should I be running, too? More wet pebbles drop from my lashes. My freckles settle as the soft splashes drown them. My pores become inordinately large. They look hungry. Perhaps that’s what my freckles are running from. I see it now. Bags appear under my eyes and deepen so suddenly I could convince a stranger I was half dead. The purple bruise swallows my eye sockets whole. They feel like stone to press. My fingers soften them with the electrocution of my touch. There is now a pool of tears and spit in the hollows of my collarbones. I can’t pry my focus away from my impurities. The singular protruding vein in my forehead pulses to the cosmos’ heartbeat. With each beat I stare harder at my reflection. I’m staring at nothing. I’m staring at my actions. I’m staring at myself. I’m staring at an angel. No, I’m staring at a demon. I’m staring at myself staring at myself. I wipe my tears from my cheeks with the end of my sweater stretched over the back of my hand, then comb my hair back into place with my fingertips. How long have I been in the bathroom at this party?Return to issues