Dry heaving on the kitchen floor, I think back to that never-ending round of spin-the-bottle. I used to spend a lot of time in a basement with a spotted boy. I love when we spit on each other, not because it’s dirty, but because black and white woven thread make grey. There’s a ghost in my record player, but I’m really thinking about the hand-job I gave you on the couch in front of your mother’s death bed. My tears taste like honeydew, and my boyfriend is wearing nothing but a leather jacket while he watches me kiss my doppelgänger for the first time. I can’t stop grinding my teeth when I sway in the sun, and when I close my eyes, I look like all those charms and skulls dangling from your rear view window. One last snaggletoothed smile, it’s Halloween and I’ve never been in love.