secret motel

I am dirty enough to make dirt seem clean.

I greyed out the sun.

Asian women in white lab coats look away and navigate sidewalks of broken glass and abandoned mattresses. They enter glass buildings reflecting light of my greyed-out sun.

I dial a number not to talk with someone but to listen to the phone ring and ring and finally crumble into white noise.

I purchase another bottle of isolation fluid and drink alone in the parking garage.

I go out after dark and wonder at how the Christmas trees kill me every single night. The music is broken and takes twice as long to misplay.