Days,
nights, and hours pass through me
like the
tap water
dripping
on my toes.
Sitting
in a tub filled
with
water that smells of iron;
a damp cloth on my head,
a
folded towel at the arch of my neck
to
keep it from the harsh
constructed
coldness.
On the toilet beside me sits
my new King that may be the
blood
of a dead savior,
it’s
a five and a quarter bottle of ether
that tastes like burnt strawberries dipped
in molasses.
The bottle is half empty.
She
walks in,
with
tones and rhythms
that
would only be decipherable
to a
blind aborigine.
There
was meaning in her voice
but it was lost
in the cooled air conditioned atmosphere
and the thick syrup of my thoughts.
She grabs the precious elixir,
smashing the bottle
over the edge of the basin.
Glass shards like snowflakes
cutting up the skin as
they land.
The red-violet fluid makes effigial tendrils in
the water.
I
remember this girl
as the
mentally prepubescent child
I met
years ago.
I watch her burgeoning womanhood
for the first time.
