She came over to give me a rose that wept Ambien tears because, she said, it would help me sleep. Which I hadn’t been able to do for quite some time. It was blue like her eyes and thorny like her soul and smelled good like her body during the winter.
She hadn’t been sleeping either. I knew because neither countless layers of make-up nor looming “cosmetic procedure” could hide the tired in her eyes. It was always the same nightmare that woke her up: acid thrown on her face by a bitter lover, and a lifetime under a burqa and sex with blind men.
The person that throws acid on my face is you, K. Her therapist apparently helped her figure that out, because last I had heard his identity was still a mystery. But I always had my suspicions.
(I didn’t tell her that the same dream was preventing me from sleeping. But in my version she throws acid on her own face and demands that her lover gouge his eyes out as “a testament of [his] love for [her].”)
She left and I ate her blue rose.
Then I went into the kitchen to find an icepick.
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