try to
disregard
your skin.
try to
trap your-
self in the
sea
of your mind.
fail.
fail and feel
feel the weight
of the cold
water
your muscles
spasm under.
when your
mother’s dog
throws its nose
onto you,
climbing bath-rim
to find what
so tenderly
hurts,
think
love must
be the hilt
of irony
since you
have no control
of your mouth
to tell
the poor thing
to forget you.
look up
to heaven,
her pearly gates
fence-posted by
shampoo bottles.
decipher
their words:
wash, dispose,
days, poison,
massage, control,
scrub, recycle.
wince
in confusion
and close
your eyes.
hope that
the water
you absorb
in this bath
makes up
for the water
you’ve rejected,
violently
heaving into
toilets.
try again
to disregard
the dermis
and muscles
and the tightly-
clenched organs
under it all
which the
water
is trying
to seep into
and steal.
focus
on the bird
calls which
you turned
on to mask
the sound
of your
vomiting
so the show
your parents watch
can go on.
wish the
water
could steal
all this too
like the
dirt
you already
washed
this morning.
hate wasting
water like this.
realize your
migraines
can count
as a pre-existing
condition for
insurance,
that this is
week six
you’ve gotten
sick,
that time
doesn’t stop
when your
ability to live
does, that
you might not-
wake up.
realize you
fell asleep
in a crib
of soggy
fear and
wet worry.
never learn
how long
has passed.
your mother
is bringing
you
another attempt
at drinking,
placing near you
a cup of ice and
soon-to-be-
diluted-bile,
turning off
the lights
because you’re
covering your
eyes, unable
to hide.
hope
the dog
can smell
how sorry
you are
that you
could never
cry for
whatever may,
or will,
happen to it.
finish your
train of thought
from before,
realizing you
can’t live
alone if you live
like this,
and finally
cry.
