Barbiturates, six, shiny green ones and four dry red pellets.
‘Do not break’, I laugh, who will shoot me?
Guinness! Oh how I missed you, your mettlesome smell, the click of the pump, cold, dark iron slipping over my tongue.
And whisky, Jack Daniels! A warm-golden kiss hugging the glass, a sinister sister for Madame Butterfly. No ice, no hangover. Perfect.
Caressing with fake red nails the single indigo plate flecked with cinnamon, sliding one finger-tip across ivory silk, honey by candlelight, a fine shroud.
Red glass crazed, gold filigree, a holy chalice to catch tears. Strangely there are none.
Odd to see my face floating in a windows, sallow so unlike itself. If I were my mother, I would tell me off.
Six years since I tasted it, real bread, not substances, pungent with stale mashed potato, plastic coated offerings, welded, and painted to create textures and flavours like bricks or polystyrene.
Such precious crumbs, I will not leave them. They fall from crust onto soft warm flesh. Yeast begging me to inhale, just to be tempted, just to stretch out the ritual, a last forbidden torment.
Butter in a clean white pot, businesslike too stiff to coax, yielding only to temperature. Then ochre liquid pooled on fingers dripping down dark lips on someone’s face, someone’s neck, mine perhaps.
The smile is not mine, Lover, squashed hard onto my lips, a tiny piece then.
No, not now, too late now, not salty or sweet, not iron or warm gold, just ash water and swallowing grit and ‘pip, pip pieeeeeeeeep’.
Bile for the ghost nurse swimming around me. The stealthy mortician’s slab following quietly. The white coated carrion who spread antiseptic, and tubes, and chalk lines. Only I can watch them, spinning round on the ceiling, on indigo plates flecked with cinnamon.