The first time I walked into the third floor apartment, my fingers were wet. You were unboxing ceramic kitchenware – a parting gift from the last of you to my current black eye. All I could hear was the woman nextdoor talking in a high pitch muffle. I sat on the floor and then laid down so my limbs can take in the coldness of the plastic wood of 2017. The ceiling’s the highest it has ever been, you can see where the paint cummed on the wood spots. I looked at you and you were laying down bubble wrap neatly in squares. Don’t touch this, I want to return this to Staples for a refund. I rubbed my thumb on my fingers and the wetness was wearing off. If I could say a lie for every truth I say, my pussy would explode. I wanted to be myself in that moment but I was afraid of hating my skin and gouging out my eyes. I turned to face the cold, hard plastic and my lips almost touched dust. I heard loud sirens outside, fading and growing. I felt at peace and knew I could probably sleep if my side of the bed faced the windows, the sunlight was a good reminder that it was okay to fall sideways. Nothing bad happens when birds are alive. I felt my almost dry fingers slip back inside my panties to cup myself. I wanted to pierce your Staple bought bubble wrap with my wetness so bad but I didn’t want to be the first one to start a fight on the first day of another day of living together, so I kept playing with myself as the woman nextdoor muffled me to sleep. The plastic was fake and so was I.