He said his name.
I swallowed it whole.
It cut the inside of me.

The light flickered.
Yellow.
Then white.
Then something else, something alive.

We took the powder.
It hissed on my tongue.
The air bent.
The world folded like wet paper.

He touched my neck.
Skin against skin, too close.
It felt like someone peeling an orange,
slowly.

The walls pulsed.
The floor rose up to breathe.
My heartbeat was in the tiles.
He laughed and it came out of my mouth.

The mirror opened like a wound.
Our faces slid together,
liquid, trembling.
His eyes were in my mouth.
My teeth were in his hands.

He whispered something that was not words.
It crawled into my ear,
into the soft part of my skull.
It began to hum there.

I tried to scream.
Nothing came out but dust.
Something in my throat moved on its own.
It wanted to be born.

He was watching.
He was not breathing.
His chest split open and light poured out.
Then the light went black.

The room filled with flies.
Their wings made a sound like crying.
My skin bubbled.
I peeled it away in sheets and saw him underneath,
smiling, wide and still.

The ceiling dripped.
Thick. Slow. Red.
I tasted it.
It was sweet.

Now everything is quiet.
The light hums softly inside me.
The mirror smiles.
The walls are whispering again.
They say he never left.