extra virgin

dear diary, 

today, i am dead.

emerging, triumphant from the bath, oiled and dangerously slippy, i stand up too fast, too stoned, and start melting. my head hits the rim of my parents’ expensive, ergonomically fascist bathtub, right on the kill switch. next morning, they find me here, naked, gleaming like a bowl of olives and cold as a stone.

neither ever bathes again.