I Didn't Sleep That Night

"Hurry," she breathed, sucking the layer of glimmer and light away from my internal countenance entirely.

Lying on the chalky rug covered in footprints, a boy was seizing in my living room . He was drunk. I wasn't. I didn't even know him.

"In the bag," the boy's friend aspirated. Each item I pulled from the drawstring cloth helped me re-unsheath swords of hope and shine to defend my candle wax heart.

I found his autoinjector.

With deviant precision, I pulled up his shorts to reveal a milky thigh and plunged in. I did great. A filmy coating of luminescence surrounded my far too sensitive being once again.

He was ok.

"Thanks," she spit, still shaken from the sudden onset of neuro-disaster.

Lying on the chalky rug covered in footprints, a boy wasn't seizing anymore. He was stark and bright against that dusty carpet, kind of sparkling a little. He was pretty.

He opened his eyes to meet mine. It was a "thank you," but a sad and murky one from dark swampy blue depths. It hurt.

"You're welcome," I cracked.