Time to shave this beard, this mark of unemployment, and get off the floor where I've spent most of the month. Time to put my tongue back in my skull and wake up.
If I still had friends, they'd say "Wow, Lizard, it's good to see you sober. We're proud of you"
and I'd fail to mention that my vices only ended when I ran out of money.
How much time has passed? A week? A year? And how much more is left?
Fast Loris, my lover, sits in the darkness of our modest apartment staring at me and wishing I were someone else. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror doing the same.
"Have you heard back from anyone yet?" she asks, masking the bitterness well.
I don't answer. I haven't spoken in so long that my lips have crusted shut.