I could never leave you.

I remember cursing under my breath as I knocked the comb off of the paper towels I had laid out, and onto the granite counter top. My hands were covered in blue and I was washing them vigorously, staining the sink as the color disappeared down the drain.

Blue is only eating blue foods this week.

I turned the shower on, waited until the water was hot, and then dove in. Blue splattered against the white-washed walls of the shower. Blue ran down my body in streaks, like blood from a bullet wound. There was a ring around the drain, like shower scum, permanent, something I'd never scrub off and I sat, letting the water pour over me, rocking back in forth.

I wasn't there anymore, I was so skinny, and none of my friends believed in me anymore. I was in Amherst, with a coke bottle filled with rum in my left hand, clinging onto Alex Daniel's with my right. I had a pen, and a green notebook we're I scrawled and scrawled as if no one had ever felt that way before. I was a graduate student, standing in Emily Dickinson's room next to her dresser, whispering frightening verse' about bumble bees. My song went: park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me.

And when I wake up, my hair is shiny and blue. I'm so cold, like a car that needs to be jumped.