I just looked at him. Stared for a long minute at his face--a mass of sallow jowls--until he shifted on his feet and decided that a dried beer stain on the table was more interesting than my hollow eyes.

But I know he's right.

I'm killing myself.

My hand shakes every time I lift a Newport to my lips. The flame that spurts up from the Zippo flickers in double time as I struggle to light the cherry. I bogarted Sheila's scale this morning...I weigh 85 pounds. I can count my ribs when I look in the mirror...and trace each blue vein to its source under my nearly translucent skin. My face looks like a skull...all too-bright eyes and bone, with a steadily thinning mass of green hair making it look all the more ghastly. Even my tattoos have lost their luster...they look like faded cave paintings that tell the story of a lost tribe, a lost civilization.

A crashing saucer. A strange blue symbol. A handprint.

Yes, I realize they *do* tell the story of a lost civilization.

And of a lost me.

I used to be beautiful. I'm not anymore.

I'm killing myself.

The problem is...I can't seem to give a damn.

I always knew I would die some day.

By all accounts, I should've died six years ago...in Michael's arms.

But he'd pushed me out of those arms. He'd told me he needed space.

We were in an "off" period.

So I got cheated out of my death.

And all this time I've just been going through the motions of living. Pretending. Waiting. Letting the minutes tick off my clock as I smoke and smoke and smoke and scream and scream and scream. As I take my destiny into my lungs with full force.

When I got on stage tonight, I stared down at the crowd of writhing bodies...of clueless kids who think snorting some coke and wearing too much eyeliner signifies a life of utter shit. I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. But I've forgotten how to cry...so I laughed. Long and loud and harsh into the microphone as it grew warm between my palms.

And they all stopped moving. They stopped chattering and giggling and bemoaning their fates. They looked up and stood still. Like they were coming face to face with the Devil of their darkest goth fantasies. And I was too much for them. They looked uneasy. A mass of young faces stripped of make-up, of cynicism, of the illusion of angst.

I heard a few of them whisper "Luca?" Tentative questioning of their anorexic diva, their personal rave scene icon.

The song was my answer.

I used to sing a capella in church when I was a kid...before all the whispers about my father leaving town made Amy stop going. And, of course, I was always singing at the CrashDown. Above the noise of clinking dishes and Lizzie mooning over Max. Michael always pretended he wasn't hanging on every note but he consistently ended up humming along as he lorded over the deep fryer.

The song was always my answer.

It wasn't hard to do it again. To let my much-abused voice well up and bounce off the dead machinery and the concrete walls.

Most of them weren't even born when the words were written. I don't think *I* was born when the words were written. But who I am now was born when I first sang them for a crowd.

*I can feel it coming in the air tonight. Oh Lord. And I've waiting for this moment for all my life Oh Lord Oh Lord

Well , I remember I remember, don't worry, how could I ever forget? It's the first time, the last time we ever met.*

I *can* feel it coming in the air. In the air I take into my body. In the air that chills my bare arms, midriff, and the patches of skin that show through the rips in my jeans.

I stumble the few blocks from the warehouse to the apartment. I don't look over my shoulder as I move...I don't care what's following me. I just look straight ahead...at what's coming towards me. At *who*.

It used to just be seeing his face amidst the crush of moshers...it used to just be hearing the echo of my old name. But now I feel it. Closer. What might've been. What should've been. What will be.

I'm killing myself.

I'm going to die.

I tilt my head back, let the starlight bathe my face, as I fling my arms out and embrace the blue-black sky. The thick ring on my thumb gleams silver-white...what might've been...what should've been...what will be.

Michael and I will be "on" again...and I'll be in his arms.

It's about fucking time.