The room is fragrant.
That is if you think the smell of
vomit and lost dreams
are fragrant.

Darkish,
are the blinds. Barely functioning
at their purpose
of taming the penetration
of daylight.

3:30 AM must’ve whispered in his
oblivious ear that the actual time was
much earlier.
And now the body has to cash in
its chips for the unannounced
night of revelry.

I thought electrolyte solution was only
for babies, but it’s also a go-to hangover drink!
Who knew?
Right there next to the Menudo.

In random moments he makes throat
audio in undocumented languages.
Perhaps they are the lost dreams trying
to be heard?
I guess I should be grateful
the audio show happened while
I was awake: for a change.

Can’t move or think.
Barely breathing and speaking.
I feel no pity for him.
For this sickness he brought upon
himself.
And Florence Nightengale has
left the building.

Shontay Luna was born in Chicago and is trying, in her own quietly desperate way, to make her city known for something besides pizza and Al Capone. Follow her on Twitter @Shontay_Luna.