I wake up with a hangover from my own life. Sand in my eyes, a fog of yesterday’s events in my head. A direct line to the plastic god. Layers upon layers, until they fuse into a single, lethal mass.

Damn, mascara gets smeared in the rain, from the vodka, from the tears. Yeah. And it’s perfect. A perfect imperfection. It’s proof that I’m alive. That I can feel. That I have something worth digging for.

I don’t need a mirror. I can feel it on my retinas — black, plastic blood. A black hole that swallows all that light, all that pain, all that noise, and spits it back at the world as a single, perfectly drawn, contemptuous look.

Wake up and die under my eyelashes.