Ink, page, skin {we’re [s]inking again}

by Charlotte E. Wilde

my sink is full of dirty dishes

my head is full of sink

you know the kind, the creeper, kudzu, the slow-to-steady-your-hands-kind, the hollow-in-the-stomach-kind. The I like this feeling of empty-kind because it means I make less of a mess-kind, you can put it off but it’s not leaving, still-knocking-don’t-forget-about-me-kind. It’s the kind that sits fast in the dark listening to a breath pattern— in the left nostril, out the right, still the heart, calm the mind— but not caring-kind because it’s busy, occupied. Elevator music, you’ll have to wait like everyone else-kind.

So stay a while, touch your skin. It’s yours. Yours more than anything has ever been yours. Savasana, you say to it, commanding. But you can’t control the trickle in and the trickle out. The sink is still dirty, your thoughts still drying, caked on, yesterday’s mess still hovering where tomorrow’s already trying to forget. Ready to. Are you?

sink. put it off. sink.

today is the 21st of June. Solstice. I’m a solstice baby, three parts of the same soul. Odd number, like I’m missing something or something is uncounted in me. sink. sunken. something lying under this skin. Hidden.

Is this a coming of age story or a count-down? 32. 23. 3. Cumulating. piled high.

Skin. Sink. Solstice.

you know the kind.

 

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