Wrong water
Rinse the paintbrush in my glass of water, drink the bowl of rinsing water.
Bath
To be submerged.
To banish the air from my nostrils,
tiny bubbles tell my cheeks that I’m under.
It’s the muffled type of silence I enjoy most about this,
voices sound like cotton wool.
Opening my eyes brings a stinging reminder,
I can’t stay here for long.
Or if I did, it would be forever.
Speedy head lurches,
greedy lungs gulp the air.
And I return.
