By: Brian Park

No face. Sometimes I try to outrun the shadows to see a face.

No name. Not even a number on the mailbox.

Friends come over. Footsteps. Laughter. But no warmth in my heart.
The water rushes down the toilet. I can barely remember anticipating the ice-cold seat.

The TV blares voices and tunes through my ears, filling up my head. These sounds press against my temples. I want to make it stop. But I can’t.

I can’t recognize the music. It is foreign. It quickly becomes an annoying chatter.

Occasionally, I’m awake at 4:30am for the morning workout. The floorboards rumble like a creak. It’s too dark to see anything. I don’t perspire. I feel tired for the rest of the day.

The microwave door slams. DING. I run over. No smell. No salivation. Poor Pavlov.

Mattress creaking. Bodies moving. Two low-pitched moans ringing in my ear. No eye contact. No bareness. Climax. No euphoria. No connection.

I think about how I want to confront him. I plan, then run to the mirror to practice. But I only see myself.