Just Stay Dead

No keys.

No access.

I know I paid the rent, but...no keys.

I didn't even get my stuff moved in. And nobody's around to help me. 

Correction. Nobody's around to do it for me. I need to get to work. But I can't get to work because...no car, no keys.

Can a girl get a fuckin' break?

If I press my face to the glass and stand just the right way I can see into the apartment. Or the house. Or the hotel room. I can't really tell what it is at this point, and it doesn't really matter because...no fucking keys.

I'm legit, y'all. It's okay to let me in. I got the job I can't get to so I can pay for the house I can't get into and drive the car I can't remember where I parked. With all my stuff in it, too. 

All my stuff I collected on my way to becoming legit.

If I press my face to the glass and stand just the right way I can scream at the top of my lungs, and the glass will shatter into a spiderweb pattern and I'll be able to push against it...just like that. 

Now that I'm in, this place is different than I remember. I shouldn't remember it at all. This is a new place with all the new potential for a different kind of life. But the carpet is so familiar. (Why did I pick a place with carpet? I hate carpet.) Bright red with a wrinkle right up the middle of the room because somebody hired their drunk cousin to install it. 

And there are extra rooms. With beds already in them, and family members I was so sure had passed away. 

And I had been happy they passed away. (I guess that makes me a bad person.)

Here they are, though, laughing it up. Ha ha. That was a funny fucking joke. 

They're all moved in and comfy cozy in my shithole apartment. The plumbing's backing up and the soupy brown water is swirling around with bits and chunks gathering up here and there. 

And there are snakes, of course.

and I can't get out.

No keys.