You lose track of time in the bubble.
Day four of these smudged pastel hours of white bread and gentle sunshine and the ovenbake group room where we all sweat out our demons. The clinic is a light box of fluorescent bouncing from magnolia wall to linoleum floor, dysfunctional prism. I feel like the dead cells are lifting off of my skin here, like a tiny galaxy of flaky armour is peeling away like a snake shedding its old summers and floating around me in orbit.
Deftone lets me watch a band play from his phone, cupping it in his hand like a forbidden cigarette, he’s coming to the end of his stay and us rookies don’t get our phones back for at least a week and he gets me when I say I might have tossed the bottle and the pill packets but I gotta fix up on my…
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