There was a sound outside that woke me up. My left arm was dead. I must have slept on it funny. For a second, I thought about masturbating with it, like maybe I could pretend it was you.
Your sweater is balled up on the ground next to a crumbling quarter of Xanax and a glass of swamp-warm water. I sip, and it tastes like a metallic canker sore.
I get out of bed because I want ice. To rub against my forehead, to chew on. Something cold to break the fever. I walk toward the kitchen but stop halfway.
It’s the night whining. That frequency is more of a yearning than a sound. Ambient, high-pitched, and rumbling all at once. The air is vibrating, but nothing’s moving. I wonder if it’s the Xanax or if you hear it too, wherever you are, if you’re awake.
It unsettles me in the same way the Hollywood Hills do. That view of the city sprawling below, lights like crushed glass on sidewalks. Yellow and sometimes red. Browns.
When does narcissism blur into singular experience?
I talk to myself a lot these days, while cleaning, running late, stabbing earrings into uneven pierced holes, breaking down infinite Amazon boxes. I’m aware of myself, is what I’m saying. Thinking.
The nights are quieter now. I don’t say much, worried that my voice might rupture the compression of sound that happens when we all take turns sleeping. Tonight I stand and listen. Ice drips from my hand to my thigh, to the floor.
That distant noise again. An airplane, or maybe tinnitus?
I’ve always thought there was a certain beauty to tinnitus. How does one know they’re losing a frequency they’ve never consciously thought about until the sound leaves their ears? Can you still hear it in your brain?
In the same way I can recall you. A little blurrier now. Slippery. Lubed-up memories sliding around, refusing to take shape. Refusing to get hard. Or does the sound just cease to exist for us?
First date question: forget your body count. Which tone of frequencies have you lost that you miss the most? What do you still strain to hear when it’s quiet enough?
Now I’ve got to wipe up the floor.
Bruised knees touch the ground in prayer. Somehow, when I’m single, I acquire minor injuries that I’m not even aware of until somebody presses on them. The last time I was on my knees wiping up fluids, we had been together for three hours straight.
There’s something so fitting about those quotes people have in their kitchens.
Wine o’ clock.
Bless this mess.
That’s how it is with us.
We share a bottle, sometimes two, and we fuck and fuck. And then I’m not sure if the glisten of wet on my cheeks is from tears or what.
The Hue lights are set to Honolulu. At first, I thought it was called Honolulu Embrace and thought that was a funny name. Like, Hawaii is already such a sensory experience. We don’t have to touch, bro.
I close the windows. But before I do, I’m graced with a breeze so delicate it feels like a sigh. And then suddenly I’m crying. My sobbing breaks the sound barrier, even though I’m biting down on four curled fingers to muffle the noise.
It’s 3 a.m. I often wake up around this time.
My ex snores. It’s like a chainsaw, even through earplugs. I think I averaged two or three hours of sleep for two and a half years. It’s funny how much I miss sleeping next to him these days. Back then, all I wanted to do was smother him when he started revving up his chest. I don’t want to get back together. It’s just that sometimes I wake up scared.
I’m not even sure why I’m crying. It’s just loneliness. Acute. Blue-toned. Feathered at the edges.
When I left Berlin, I asked a friend to connect me with their Xanax dealer. Alprazolam in Europe. My brain always wants me to pronounce it a lasso pram. I sent her a message on Signal with the amount I wanted. I asked if she could deliver it to me because I was in my hotel room, recovering from wisdom tooth surgery.
I can’t get out of bed, I wrote. I am sick and just got out of a breakup, and I was wondering if you could please just bring it to me. I could pay a premium to get it now.
She wrote back, Yes, babe. I can Uber courier it to you. But may I ask you a question? I don’t want to pry, but are you trying to kill yourself?
I laughed. No, I’m too young and still have hotties to fuck, so not yet.
Okay, purr, she wrote.
There was a point during my breakup in the hotel where I was looking for euthanasia in the Netherlands, but didn’t qualify. In the same browser, I was also looking at the Zara sale.
I’m crying because I’m sick and I have a fever. I don’t like waking up alone to witness the night whining. Frequencies.
I’m a trembling dog, unable to lie down properly. Turning, turning, turning and pawing.
I pick up your sweater from the ground and pull it over my body.
It smells like you, faintly, but mostly like me now.
Currently publishing under sleepdem0n — it fits the mood. Might change it back to my real name once I untangle the backend. Appreciate you reading this far. :)
Again I loved your writing <3
You know how much to divulge and enjoying it comes with much ease. Thanks