starts
when
insecurity
runs into
your bedroom
door. It comes in
the form of
serpents,
their faces
bearing those
of your
friends.
"Seniors,"
they hiss
like in a choir,
batting their
lashes and
shaking their
fork tongues.
"We are
seniors now".
Promptly you
draw the pistol
from the
bedside table,
lick the barrel,
and aim at their
mouths. Then
one by one,
the slithering
fades, followed
by the smoky
revelation
of blood
and brains.
"Tomorrow,"
you say.
"I'll clean you up."
You turn off
the lamp, take
off the
sheet, and
plunge into
dreams,
hoping to
find a
chamber
made of
crisp
dollar
bills.
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