The wind pisses through the window screen and spits on my face.
I awake.
Another day.
My pillow is jaundiced and flaccid with yellow halos. It’s shitting feathers.
My blanket, a faded garden, a gift from some chick, is frayed.
I have no sheets, and there are ashes and gritshit in the quilted corners of my mattress.
When did I become this?
I used to wake to cock tents. To a Hendricks hangover, cigarette breath, and a blond in a polyester thong beside me. I had a tan and abs like a fucking egg carton. My dick was majestic; I called it Moby because it wailed on chicks.
I laugh at this.
My morning piss is no longer stiff. It smells like asparagus and geriatrics. I miss the toilet half the time, and what’s the point of flushing; it never vanishes.
I let the faucet spray and weigh the idea of shaving. The water shushes an aggressive stream. My straight blade razor is caked with cream and pussy gray prickles from weeks ago.
My five o’ shadow forgot to grow; my body hair is a no show. I have spotted, thin skin, purple botches, and bitch-smooth legs with bulging veins like a braille roadmap.
I swish off the water and sit on the toilet, open, with no seat.
I am alone, hollow, on the cold porcelain with the piss I invented.
There were chances.
There was a chance. Maryanne.
Maryanne with rosesmooth wrists. Pepper lips. And the s hips. Marianne with the Chamomile breath.
I survey my swollen, stiff palms as if to witness the shit I twisted.
I flip my hands like pancakes and laugh at the fat, yellow nails and starchy flesh. My wrinkled doorknob knuckles. I laugh at how time has eaten me alive; divided me into enzymatic moments, swallowed me by the hour, and digested my life. The silent stealer; it takes in ticks of minutes.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And there I was, pissing in the wind.
