I spot a grey hair in the mirror. I tear it out. On my head a delicate layer of grease. Exaggerated cakes with paper flowers from last year. Wax dropping on my chin as I kneel down to blow them out and drop my face in to the buttercream. It fits my face like a glove. Ahhhh, no gag-reflex this time, only sprinkles in my eyebrows.
Again, this is just a possibility.
Saint Sebastian lying on the edge of the sink. His words come out in bubbles.
I drown my fingertips in blue. Roses growing out of them, cut. A toxic race, my heart is a horse. Nobody wins forever. She works as a neurotransmitter.
For years I couldn‘t fall asleep laying on my back with my arms and hands resting on my body, because that was the way I knew and imagined dead people to lay in their coffins. If I would surrender to unconsiousness in that position, it would be a sleep for eternity. I was a princess and nobody could save me from my own eternal damnation of being.