Bunny Mask

The butt of the cigarette gives off more smoke than its initially corrupted form–which was once gentle, white, and elongated, protruding from in between the knuckle velvet of my pointer and middle fingers.

To my right, my brother is high on something non-material. Not a bud or a powder or even an edible, but some sort of blue light video casting a shadow from the phone to his face. From beyond the trees, the sky has grown a navy blue. 

I am trying to remember what it is to be bored the way I was when I was a child. The radio was still relevant enough to be around but not lively enough to play anything of interest. It had become a place for bored journalists to talk about their even more boring lives and take phone calls from other adults who were more bored than them. I am trying to remember what it is to be bored in the time of the backseat, picking at the headrest and being scolded when I accidentally pulled my mom’s hair. Bored in a  grocery aisle where I look at a tall, skinny woman and imagine I’m her. 

I take another drag of the cigarette and adjust the bunny mask, which began slipping from my face. I’d made the ribbon in the back too long. Around an hour ago, I was alone in my nightgown, fist-deep in glitter glue and fake whiskers. I made myself this bunny mask.