Hungover with a Lampshade

In a hotel room, I am jolted awake.

No being waits for me in the dark,

nor in the empty bed next to me,

but the color of the air is different.

 

I notice the walls: I am appalled.

They are covered in peeling hair.

 

A sound from my throat is cloyed

when no locks brush my shoulders:

I raise a hand to my head,

 

my scalp is floral.

Wallpaper.

Unoffending and bland.

 

The floor aches with a lusty flesh breath

and my figure doesn't rise or fall.

It’s hard to realize it when I touch

my body, it takes me a few seconds 

to process,

 

as I pick splintered wood 

from my belly.

-Bethany Price, from Terror, V.A.P. 2014