Lush

Dawn is a gunshot. An explosion of high beams and church bells that shake your brain. Crawl out of dirty linen cocoon. Stand. Your joints ache with boozy rigor mortis. Pull your hands across your eyes; a rotting possum and a rusty razor gash your senses. Fumble to bathroom. Expel your proofed personality into its porcelain tomb. You’re a barroom medium, Dr. Jeckyll. You hear Hyde screaming from beyond the grave. Pull off you Dead Sea stale clothes. The faucet yawps and screams like a dying animal. The ice cold water stifles your breath, drops you to your raw knees. Spring to your feet. Pull back curtain. Plant your wet feet on dingy tile. Stomp to freezer like each step is a shot glass slamming the oak bar. Open and pull him from slumber. Kiss his mouth, suck him dry. Let him burn down your throat. Saunter back to shower, Mr. Hyde.