waterpark surrealism Claire He
last night, i dreamt that you slipped into that liminal space in the Marriott
hotel— delirium in clouded neon reflections, the wallpaper chalk-white under your nails— sprawling yourself on the balcony. you told me that i’d regret you. the waterpark never shines that bright, but in the dream, it blinded me like the night you sank me in the bathtub—when i almost drowned, when you poured the champagne into the hazy lights, telling me to drink. it was the Fourth of July when you stomped the match out in the hallway outside the old hotel room. your brother’s cigarette smoke choking the air. i gasped, slipping on the pool tiles like i couldn’t breathe the way you did, chlorine in my nostrils. mascara smeared down my neck, where your lipstick faded. you said you’d show me thirst. bliss. suffocating me in your damp jacket. i hung my hair to dry on the balcony, tipping my head over the railing; there you were, holding out your hand. your kiss tasted like matcha. dancing like swallowing like falling all over again. playing spider solitaire at the arcade. you were right, you know, when you said i’d regret you. you, shivering in your blouse. you, brighter in my dreams. medical-white cheeks resting on first-aid kits. stealing the LEDs from the arcade before pushing me underwater. at 1 a.m., i bundle a match in your towel as the fire alarm goes off, winding your 90’s television cassettes, shattering a lollipop between my canines, and i plunge from overstayed liminality into the pool, pretending i’m reaching for you.
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