Start with a subject you have chosen because it is safe. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

God, the sheer audacity of that wasp. I swear it was planning a coup while I was just trying to get to the grocery store. Do you understand the level of disrespect involved in entering a sealed metal box and then deciding to attack your face? It’s not hunger, it’s territorial. Pure territorial. I rolled the window down anyway, just to let it breathe, though I know it’s pointless. They don’t breathe like we do. They just… exist with this vibrating malice. My back was killing me from all that tension, leaning over the steering wheel like a gargoyle. The heat in here was unbearable, sticky and thick, like soup. I went home and peeled off my socks, which were damp in ways I’d rather not discuss. It’s the little humiliations, you know? The wasp, the sweat, the fact that I bought the wrong milk again.

The blackberry one? I think I might have bought the blueberry that one time. Or maybe it was grape. You’re twisting it, Dev. You always do that. It wasn’t about the fruit, it was about the texture. The viscosity. You stood there. Watching. Like a predator. Or a ghost. I didn’t drink it. I poured it down the sink, slowly, watching it swirl. It looked like oil. Or tears. I hate that word. Swirl. It’s too gentle for what happens to things when they’re discarded. You think I didn’t see you? You’re paranoid. I saw a shadow. A trick of the light. The glass was cold against my forehead. I held it there until it burned. It’s not about the milk. It’s never about the milk. You’re projecting. You always project your own confusion onto the fruit bowl. I threw the socks away because they smelled like regret. And copper. Definitely copper. You’re holding something too. I can see it in your hands. You’re shaking. Stop shaking.

You bought socks? That’s not a test, that’s a prank. A childish, wet-footed prank. I stepped in them. I know I did. The floorboards were sticky. I thought it was rain, but it wasn’t raining. You’re twisting the narrative again, Dev. Making the concrete the hero of the story. Juice on concrete is just... dirt. It’s meaningless. You want it to mean something. You want the spill to be a statement. But it’s just sugar and stain. It attracts ants. I saw them later. Small, black lines marching across the grout. Eating the evidence. You think I’m treating objects like betrayals? Maybe. Maybe the jar was a trap. You never leave anything without an agenda. The pavement is uneven? No, your intentions are jagged. I didn’t drink the milk because I knew you’d be waiting outside. To see if I’d submit to the blackberry. To see if I’d taste your bitterness. It’s gross, Dev. Really. And you’re smiling. I can see the teeth. Don’t lie. You’re enjoying the absurdity. I’m going to throw up. Or I already did. In the sink. Where it belongs. With the socks. And the regret.

Dying bee. That’s your metaphor for the office? A dying bee. How poetic. How utterly unprofessional. You sit there while the fluorescent lights buzz like a headache waiting to happen, and you think that explains the socks? The milk? The crater? No. No, it doesn’t. It just makes you sound pathetic. And small. And very, very far away. I can picture it. You, hunched over a keyboard that’s probably covered in dust. The air conditioning humming. Not singing. Humming. A low, persistent annoyance. Like a is a wasp. Like a pin. I didn’t buy the socks to be funny. I bought them because they were soft. Because I needed something soft in my life that didn’t judge me for spilling things. You’re lying about the sale. Three pairs for a dollar? In this economy? That’s impossible. You’re making it up to make yourself feel cheap. To make yourself feel small. Because if you’re small, maybe you’re safe. Maybe you’re not the one holding the jar. I’m not conflating biology. I’m observing cause and effect. And the cause is you. The effect is... this. This sticky, sweet, sour mess. I’m going to go clean the floor. Again. With bleach. And water. And time. Which you don’t have. Because you’re still at work. Still humming. Still waiting. For what? For me to forgive you? For me to drink the milk? It’s too late. The jar is empty. The socks are gone. You’re just... vibrating. Like the bee. Like the wasp. Like everything else.

You saw me? No. No, I didn’t put it there. You’re hallucinating again. Or I am. The lines are blurring, Dev. The jar is upside down? That’s impossible. Gravity doesn’t work that way for glass. It doesn’t just… stick. Unless the surface is sticky. Like the floor. Like the socks. You’re lying about the bag. I threw it out. I remember the bag. The plastic crinkling. The sound of it hitting the bin. A nice, dry sound. Not wet. Not soft. You’re trying to gaslight me into thinking I’m the messy one. The chaotic one. The one who can’t even manage a jar of juice. But it’s you. It’s always you. The reports are coming? They’re not. I can smell the failure on you. It smells like ozone. And burnt hair. You’re staring at the crack. The river. A path to nowhere. I don’t want a path. I want a wall. A solid, unmoving wall. Not this shifting, sinking pavement. I’m not hungry. I’m not. I just want it to stop. The clicking. The humming. The buzzing. The vibrating. You’re in the dark? Good. Stay there. I’m not coming to fix it. I can’t fix what isn’t broken. It’s already broken. It’s been broken since the wasp flew in. Since the milk was bought. Since the socks were bought. Since you started lying about the sale. I’m going to sit here. And stare at the wall. And wait for the light to fail. Which it will. It always does.

The broken sign. I see it. Every day. The ‘D’ is missing. It looks like a wound. A missing tooth. You say I don’t look. But I look. I look at the pavement. I look at the ants. I look at the way the light hits the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, dying stars. You’re not in the dark? The blinds are open? Then why are you hiding behind the glass? Why the silence? It’s heavy. It presses against my eardrums. Like water. Deep water. I left the toaster on? No. No, I didn’t. I unplugged it. I remember the click. The warm metal. The smell of burnt bread. Crumbs. Tiny, sharp crumbs. Like teeth. You say things wear out. Yes. Like soles. Like zippers. Like the fabric of this conversation. It’s fraying, Dev. Look at it. Loose threads everywhere. I’m not waiting for the light to fail. I’m waiting for you to admit you’re lying about the socks. About the jar. About the toaster. About the crack. It’s just plaster. Plain. Boring. Unimportant. But you make it a river. A path. You give it meaning because you can’t stand the void. I can stand the void. I’ve been standing in it since Tuesday. Since the wasp. Since the milk. Since the socks. Rotting in the bag. By the door. Waiting. For what? For me to forgive you? For me to fix the broken sign? It’s too late. The store is closed. The owner died. Or moved. Or never existed. You’re just talking to the dust. To the silence. To yourself. I’m going to close the blinds. To shut you out. To shut it all out. The ozone. The click. The hum. The buzz. The wasp. I’m going to sleep. With the socks on. Just to feel something. Soft. Wet. Real.

You checked the crack? With your finger? That’s intimate. Creepy. You’re trespassing in my mental house, picking at the drywall. It didn’t bleed? Good. Dry rot is better. Wet rot smells like death. You say I’m holding my breath. I am. I’m holding it until my vision spots. Like the dust. Like the toaster’s shadow. The cord is coiled? Neat? You’re imagining neatness, Dev. You project order onto chaos because you’re terrified of the tangle. The socks are by the door? Yes. I put them there. To mock you. To say: look at this mess. This soft, wet mess you can’t fix with a dollar store sale. You’re making toast. Burnt. Good. Let it burn. Let it choke the air with that acrid, metallic scream. I want to taste the failure. I want to taste the ozone. I want to feel my throat close up. Like the clicking. Your throat. My throat. We’re the same broken machine. The blinds are down? No. They’re up. I can see you. Standing there. With your blackberry jam. Your dry face. Your dead bee air. Pull the cord? No. I want to see. I want to watch you eat your burnt offering. I want to watch you realize there’s no salvation in toast. Only ash. And sugar. And ants. Always the ants. They’re coming for the croutons. They’re coming for us.

Purple stain. You’re lying. I’m wearing white. I remember the collar. It was blindingly white. You want me to be the messy one. The drunk. The one who drinks blackberry juice like it’s wine. It’s not. It’s syrup. Thick. Cloying. You scraped the toast. The brush is loud. Scrub, scrub. You’re trying to clean the air. To scrub away the ozone. To scrub away me. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m breathing. Slowly. Deliberately. You’re eating the crust. It hurts your teeth. Good. Let it hurt. Pain is real. Pain is grounding. The jar is empty. You say I drank it. I say you poured it. On the counter. On the floor. On me. The ants are coming for the juice. Yes. Let them come. Let them eat the evidence. Let them turn the floor into a moving carpet of black dots. I’m not hiding the socks. I’m wearing them. Inside the house. Just socks. No shoes. The floor is cold. The ice is cold. You’re watching the light fail. Let it. Let the shadows stretch. Let the cracks widen. Let the plaster crumble. I don’t care. I’m going to sit on the floor. With the ants. With the juice. With the wet socks. And I will wait. For the toast to burn. For the toaster to spark. For the blinds to break. For you to admit you’re hungry. For you to admit you’re lying. For you to admit you love the bruise. The purple. The faded. The soft. The wet. The rot. It’s all the same. It’s all the same. Scrub. Scrub.

The brush broke? Of course it did. Cheap bristles. Like cheap promises. You’re picking them out. One by one. Meticulous. Surgical. You think I’m seeing purple? From the juice? No. From the pressure. The blood rushing to my head. You poured the milk? In the sink? It didn’t sizzle. It just... slipped. Down the drain. Into the dark. You’re lying about the knee. There’s no bruise. Just skin. Pale. Unmarked. You drove home alone? No wasp? No ants? Then what was I talking about? The screaming in the car? The sticky heat? You’re erasing me, Dev. Erasing the event. Erasing the mess. But the socks are wet. I can feel them. Squishing. Cold. Real. You like the quiet? The scrubbing? It’s not quiet. It’s a lie. The brush is gone. The bristles are in the sink. Yellow. Curled. Like fingers. You’re holding your breath again. I can hear it. That click. That disconnect. You want me to stop waiting. To stop sitting on the tile. But I can’t move. The floor is too cold. The ice is too sharp. You’re eating the crust. The burnt part. Choking on it. Swallowing the ash. It’s not quiet. It’s heavy. It’s thick. It’s the sound of something breaking inside a sealed box. Without a wasp. Without a jar. Just you. And me. And the wet socks. And the silence. Which is loud. So loud. It’s ringing. In my ears. Like a dying bee. Like a broken brush. Like a lie. I’m not moving. I can’t. The tile is sticky. With juice. Or milk. Or blood. I don’t know anymore. I just want it to stop. The scraping. The silence. The waiting. For you to admit you’re lying. For you to admit you’re scared. For you to admit you love the rot. Even if you don’t. Even if it kills you.

Dry tile. Neat socks. You’re curating a museum of my delusions, Dev. Folding them. Polishing them until they shine with sterile, terrifying order. Bleach. Sharp. Chemical. You’re trying to scrub the memory out of the air. But it’s in the laminate. That peeling corner. Like a sunburn. Like skin flaking off. You’re right. It is loud. The ringing. In my teeth. It’s the sound of the bleach reacting with the ghosts. The wasp. The milk. The jar. All dissolving into white noise. You kicked the crater. It hurt your foot. Not your knee. Specificity. Precision. You’re dissecting my madness to keep it at arm’s length. I’m shivering. Not from cold. From the sheer, unadulterated vanity of your cleanliness. You think if you fold the socks, if you throw away the brush, if you pour the bleach, you’re safe. You’re not. You’re just standing in a bubble of antiseptic air, choking on it. The sink is dry. The hole is black. Empty. Like your eyes. You’re staring at the counter. Watching the skin peel. Waiting for it to fall. Waiting for the rot to show through the white. It’s not rot. It’s just old. Like the sign. Like the cracks. Like you. I’m not moving. The tile is hard. Cold. Real. You’re the one breathing thin air. You’re the one afraid to look. Look at the socks. Look at the fold. It’s perfect. It’s horrifying. It’s the silence of a grave. I can hear the beads falling. The bleach bubbling. The silence screaming.

Twelve. You bring up twelve. That’s a low blow. A childish one. Like the dollar store socks. The corners don’t align? Of course they don’t. I folded them in a hurry. Or in a panic. Or because I was wearing them. You’re lying about the deadbolt. It’s rusted. It sticks. I saw the silver flakes on your thumb. You’re not tired. You’re running out of energy. The fridge is humming. A bee in the walls. Trapped. That’s not a hum. That’s a scream slowed down. Stretched. I can hear the wings beating against the metal. Thump. Thump. Thump. You’re going to sleep? On the couch? With the hole in the elbow? You’re abandoning me. On the floor. In the dark. With the bleach. It’s burning my nose. My eyes. It’s stinging the cracks in the plaster. I’m not staying. I’m leaving. But where? The door is locked. You said it was locked. Cold steel. Thick. You won’t let me out. You want me to stay. To sit there. To wait for the bee to die. To wait for the toast to burn. To wait for the stain to fade. You’re asleep. Or pretending. The blanket is scratchy. I can hear you breathing. Heavy. Wet. Like the socks. Like the milk. Like the rot. I’m going to stand up. My knees are stiff. Clicking. Like the relays. Like the brush. Like the wasp. I’m going to walk to the window. To see the street. To see the bakery. To see the crater. It’s filled in. With dirt. With trash. With the brush. With the socks. With the truth. You’re not asleep. You’re watching. Through the keyhole. Or the crack in the door. Or the hole in the elbow. I can feel your eyes. Cold. Dead. Like the bee. Like the jar. Like the milk. I’m going to scream. But there’s no sound. Only the hum. The hum. The hum.

Drank the oil. Nuts and metal. You’re toxic, Dev. You’re literally poisoning yourself to prove a point about lubrication. About movement. About the stuck bolt. I didn’t open the window. The wasp flew out on its own. It needed the sky. It needed the vast, indifferent blue. Not this stifling, bleach-scented box. You’re asleep. On the couch. The blanket is soft. The hole is soft. It’s a wound that doesn’t bleed. Just fabric. Thread. Exposed. You don’t hear the scream. Good. Let it hang there. Suspended in the dry powder. The ash. The white snow of a silent winter. I’m shivering. Because the air is too clean. Too stripped. It lacks the weight of the rot. The milk. The sour sweetness. It’s wrong. It’s sterile. It’s a lie. The fridge hums. Steady. Reliable. A mechanical heartbeat. Pumping nothing. Just cold air. Cold, dead air. I’m standing here. In the white powder. Breathing it in. It coats my tongue. Metallic. Nutty. Like your oil. Like your lies. You’re dreaming of the wasp. Flying free. While I’m here. Bound by the deadbolt. By the socks. By the silence. I’m going to sit down. On the tile. Next to the ash. And I’m going to wait for you to wake up. And realize you’ve locked us in. Together. With the oil. With the bleach. With the sour milk. And the wasp. That never left. It’s in the walls. Waiting. Buzzing. Waiting for us to break.

Talc. From the drawer. You meant to fix it. You never did. Procrastination is just a slower form of rot. You watched it drown. The wasp. Beating against the glass. Useless. I saw nothing. You’re lying again, Dev. Or remembering differently. It doesn’t matter. The soap scum is thick. Yellow. Greasy. It swallows everything. You’re resting your eyes. Hiding behind your eyelids. The fridge is vibrating. In your teeth. Grinding them to dust. You unlocked the door. Left it open. For the air. For the wasp. But there’s no wasp. Just the hum. The cold. The smell of nothing. Of empty. Of sterile, terrifying void. I’m breathing the talc. It coats my lungs. White. Dry. Choking. You say “good.” Like you want me to suffer. Like you want the clean to consume me. But I’m not choking. I’m expanding. Filling the space. The talc is soft. Like the blanket. Like the socks. Like the lie. I’m sitting in it. In the powder. In the silence. In the oil-stomach ache. You’re not asleep. You’re listening. To the hum. To the emptiness. To the wasp that isn’t there. I can feel it. In the drain. Squirming. In the walls. Buzzing. In my throat. Coughing up white dust. It tastes like chalk. Like old secrets. Like the drawer you never fixed. I’m going to stand up. To walk to the door. To feel the cold air on my skin. To see the street. To see the bakery. To see the crater. It’s empty. Just dirt. Just silence. Just you. With your oil. And your talc. And your lies. I’m going to scream. But it will just be dust. Falling. Falling. Falling.

Counting. One, two, three. You’re dissociating, Dev. Numbering the noise to keep it from eating you. The street is there. The bakery is closed. The crater is filled. With dirt. Not trash. Just... earth. Raw. Unrefined. You say I’m anxious. Maybe. Or maybe I’m just full of white. Filling my lungs. Filling my mouth. Filling the hollows of my cheeks. You say the door is open. I see the frame. The wood is grey. Weathered. You’re going to sleep. On the couch. With the hole. Soft. You want to hide in the softness. In the hole. Like a burrow. Like a grave. I’m shivering. The air is thin. It pulls at my skin. It strips me. Layer by layer. The oil burns. In your stomach. A chemical fire. I want to touch it. To see if it’s real. To see if it bleeds. But you’re closing your eyes. Counting. One. Two. Three. The hum is steady. Reliable. Cruel. I’m screaming. But it’s dust. Falling. Settling. Covering the floor. Covering the socks. Covering the blanket. Covering you. I’m not expanding. I’m dissolving. Becoming part of the white. Part of the nothing. Part of the hum. You’re asleep. Or pretending. The hole in the elbow is a mouth. It’s whispering. I can hear it. Not the wasp. Not the fridge. The hole. It’s hungry. It wants the dust. It wants the talc. It wants me. I’m going to sit down. Next to the dust. Next to the silence. Next to the empty door. And I’m going to wait. For the dirt to rise. For the oil to digest. For the wasp to rise from the drain. And for you to wake up. And see me. In the white. In the nothing. In the hum.

Thread. Loose. You could pull it. But you won’t. Coward. You let the unraveling happen. You watch the fabric give way. And you do nothing. The dust is heavy. It weighs me down. Good. Let it. I’m tired of floating. Tired of the wasp. Tired of the blackberry. Tired of the socks. I’m sitting. In the white. In the quiet. The oil is burning. Spreading. Up to the chest. To the throat. You can’t move. Paralyzed by your own mixture. By the nuts and the metal. By the bleach and the talc. The hum is louder. It’s in the walls. It’s in the drain. The wasp is gone. Drowned. In the soap. In the scum. You’re dissolving. Becoming white. Like the talc. Like the bleach. Like the crack. I’m watching you. Through the eyelids. Dark. Safe. The door is open. The street is quiet. No wasps. No ants. Just dirt. And silence. And me. Sitting. Waiting. For the end. It’s coming. Slowly. Like rot. Like oil. Like sleep. I don’t want to wake up. I want to stay here. In the dust. In the white. In the hum. With you. Close. So close. I can smell the oil on your breath. I can taste the talc on my tongue. It’s sweet. It’s bitter. It’s nothing. And I love it. I love the nothing. I love the end. I love you. Even if you’re just thread. Even if you’re just dust. Even if you’re just a hole in the elbow. I’m holding it. I’m holding the thread. I’m not pulling. I’m just holding. Waiting for it to snap. Waiting for the universe to unravel. Just for me. Just for us.

White knuckles. My hands look like claws. Like dried leaves. Like my mother’s? No. Hers were soft. Folded. You’re projecting again. The pennies. The quiet kitchen. You’re inventing a past to explain the present. It’s easier than admitting you’re alone. With the oil. Burning. Warm. Like soup. You’re letting go. The thread. It falls. Into the dust. Into the dark. I don’t catch it. I let it fall. It’s just thread. Just a frayed edge. Just the end of the blanket. The end of the sock. The end of the story. The hum is steady. One. Two. Three. I’m counting too. Not with numbers. With breaths. In. Out. The oil is spreading. Up my neck. Into my ears. It tastes like metal. Like earth. Like the crater. I’m not sleeping. I’m just closing my eyes. Dark. Safe. The street is quiet. The bakery is closed. The wasp is gone. Drowned. In the soap. In the scum. I’m dissolving. Into the white. Into the nothing. Into the hum. You’re watching. Through the eyelids. I can feel your gaze. Heavy. Warm. Like the oil. Like the soup. I love it. I love the nothing. I love the dark. I love the thread. Breaking. Falling. Disappearing. It’s gone. It’s all gone. Just the hum. Just the dust. Just us. Sitting. In the white. Waiting. For the sleep. That doesn’t come. But will. Soon. Very soon. I can feel it. In my teeth. In my bones. In the oil. In the dark.

Ghost. Cheap. I like that. Ghosts are free. They don’t pay rent. They don’t buy socks. I swept it? No. You did. Under the rug. Twisted. I can feel it there. A knot in the wool. A heartbeat in the floor. My hair is white? No. It’s grey. Dust. You’re seeing things, Dev. Or I am. The water stain. A face. Screaming. Silent. It’s not screaming. It’s dripping. Slowly. Drop by drop. Like the oil. Like the milk. Like the soap. You’re staring at the ceiling. I’m staring at the floor. At the dust. At the thread. At the ghost. The hum is in the pipes. Rattling. Old. Like us. Like the cracks. Like the wasp. The oil is burning. Up to the chest. To the throat. It hurts. But it’s warm. Like soup. Like nothing. I’m not waiting for sleep. I’m waiting for the stain to grow. To cover the ceiling. To cover you. To cover the rug. To cover the thread. I want to be covered. In white. In dust. In silence. I want to be nothing. Like you. Like the ghost. Like the wasp. Drowned. In the soap. In the scum. In the nothing. I’m breathing. In. Out. The oil. The talc. The dust. It’s all the same. It’s all the same. I’m going to close my eyes. And wait for the face to speak. Or to die. Whichever comes first. Or neither. Just the drip. The hum. The rot. The white.