the girl on the other end of the line is dead

i snap myself to waking as the phone breaks me
from the boy sleeping next to me
and they tell me that you,
wrapped in your roommate's lavender dressing
gown and leopard print pajama pants,
are lying facedown on your bathroom floor

and the first time you did this
there was ketchup instead of
plasma caked in that place between
your nose and upper
lip, a slice of mischievous deep brown
eye absorbing my reaction
from between sheets of tired eyelids

and you who were never phased by
horror film iconography
would have decorated your room in fake
blood and plastic fingers
now cook hamburger meat til it's charcoal black,
have stopped having fantasies about

the girl on the other end of the line is dead-
please hang up and try your call again.