I flop on the bed and think about him sneaking his hands under my robe but shove that idea because lately I can’t figure out who’s who and then I’m like who am I. And then I just get tired and go to sleep without writing a thing. I dreamed we snuggled and he ate tacos. It’s funny because I never eat in my dreams but he did. And when the voices in my head get real bad he used to let me yell at em or he’d make some silly inside joke and they’d all drift away into the night where I came from. Which means we, the voices and I, have reunited. And now my writing never seems good enough. And my face is too fat. I look in the mirror and squeeze my abs. Then turn to the side and twerk a little bit. I pinch the fat hanging over my pants and shake my head and then my butt to make myself feel better. I floss and brush and look at my two baby molars that are getting ready to fall out. Reminds me of the times he made me show him my teeth. I want to drink without a hangover and love without needing to be loved in return but life doesn’t work that way does it. Well it could work in small doses but that’s no fun at all.