hangover--mirror-windows & selfconsciousness--lowkey the one intent on winning has not loved yet

I would have a baby for the dreamstate of the epidural. I am swaddled here in my smooth, nice sheets and my squeezing headache, my brain-child, my splitting athenian pregnancy-- I'm covered in bruises but i want more, I love to fall in the direct aftermath, I love the first-grade showing of scars later-- I like social proof that I am alive, in the sense that on instagram you can see I have friends who think of me if you take your finger and drag it to the left(?). I would like it if people thought of me but I do it too much already. I think it is impossible to truly relate to people sometimes; I feel shame in the split second when I'm only looking for a simulacrum of myself as a pretty girl in the glass of their eyes or in the dark mirrors of empty storefronts in a tourist city where I "live;" as a transient parasite that'll one day get pissed out like a kidney stone. I think it's sadder for the parasite: I have nowhere else to go. I can't ever leave them, but I will never, ever know what's inside -- maybe a replica of me, vain and frivolous and fleeting, not connecting with anything except my own self-image.