you turn off the light in the bathroom
and close the door
you look into the mirror and say
your own name three times
you open the medicine cabinet and
check that the pill bottle still
says “side effects:
loss of vocabulary”
you put it in the thing
next to the thing and
get into bed and lie still
momentarily, you forget
the meaning of “blanket” and assume
a small blankness.
kimmy walters lives in st. louis, missouri. her writing appears or is forthcoming in the chariton review, gesture, skydeer helpking, and others. she tweets @arealliveghost.