day 24: no, i'm not suicidal

Last night I had a dream. There were clocks everywhere, mounted on the walls, above drinking fountains like the inside of pop cans. It was after school, Pat was giving me a ride home. I kept forgetting my backpack everywhere, and when I swung it onto my shoulders, the zippers slid open like warm butter, and drumsticks (hi, I'm a percussionist), notebooks, calculators fell to the floor. The cross country team was in the restroom. Their clothes were flung over stall doors, backpacks propped up against the walls, and the coach set out a bowl of raw mushrooms as a snack.

Sometimes I imagine slicing my face with a razor and pulling the skin away like an orange.

Yesterday morning, though frosty windows, everything was smeared with white, white, white. I popped in my contacts after taking a steamy shower with scented soaps and shampoos, and a thin layer of snow blanketed blades of grass and crumpled leaves. Pat and I spent hours playing Xenosaga, watching cut-scenes and eating candies out of a mint-colored mixing bowl. Di and Jackie stopped by on their way to play practice, cocooned in warm jackets and mittens and scarves. They gave me a mocha and a chocolate-covered espresso bean.

I like pomegranates. Stained fingers and sweet seeds.

Abruptly ending now.