Now I can’t stop the water from running over the sink, or the bathtub, or through windows on late nights.
I hear the rushing waters calling over my shoulder and feel the oceans in my boots.
You ask me why I’m never wearing shoes, why it takes so god damn long for me to move.
Now I can’t stop the fabric from peaking out of drawers, or overflowing dresser tops, or whispering the privacies I wish I could hold onto.
You ask if I’ll ever put on a suit, let you train me too,
But I won't let those rushing waters fill breast pockets and pressuring my heart.
Sometimes I feel like my kitchen sink, so open and flooded with things that feel so alive inside.
Sometimes I feel like my dresser, this mass taking up space that I made from the ground up. That’s why the drawers don’t sit straight.
Sometimes I feel. Sometimes I think. Sometimes I forget to breathe
or eat.
My head constantly flooded with should’s and should-not’s, but almost never “should breathe”
There are things people say that stick with me, drill into me - they’re screwing with me.
