seven o’ clock: peel off your clothes and kiss the floors, damp and sticky with rubber guarding. rub your feet against the white cool tiling, walk the length of the moon.
half past seven: step into the shower. drink up all the rotting. drink up all the blood.
eight o’ clock: pull his teeth out of your lungs before you wash your face. watch as the incisors clink against the faucet, and tumble down the pipes. your jaw aches from the reaching, and one molar tumbles from your lips, rose red and snow white, slicing open your mouths.
nine o’ clock: soaking your fingers in milk and honey will stop the shaking, but i doubt you have regrets.
ten o’ clock: do not eat dinner. just clamber into bed, and try not to cry.”
— [ evening routine ] a.g.