by Vera Caldwell
My bed’s on fire. At least it’s warm. You see, dark nights like these bring winds that chill me with their
flights of fancy, but the glow on my ceiling is so bright that I can’t help but be drawn into my own
mystique. Paintings, posters, calendars are in flames, tacks melted and dripping down the sweating
paint. Ziggy Stardust chars. My (uninspected) body weaves between stacks of my paraphernalia. I
breathe their ash; fragments of letters received years ago, trophies and their dust, guitars and their
rusted strings scrape my lungs. THIS IS REAL, they tell me. YOU ARE REAL.