My sleeping capsules — my red and blue night candy — knock me into a black sack. They spread inside me like spiderwebs, and then drop me from an altitude that weakens my breathing. There are holes in my dreams and even when I’m awake, I cannot remember where the burning cigarettes on my nightstand came from. My head is smashed, my hair stiffened flat like an ironing board. My ribs are showing, they glisten like armor. I cannot remember if I’ve eaten. This fever has left me hooked, hung, and starved. I dream of being someone else entirely because I am myself, and that is not enough.