and I am sitting in my bed and
i see the water turn my doorknob,
dissolve the door hinges
and all I can think is that “orange” is
the only word that has ever seemed to rhyme
with door hinge since I was seven
and now I’m laughing as I write this because
the spell check in my head has changed my “doorhinge” to “door hinge”
and a lot of my life has been a fucking lie.
and as I’ve been messing around with doorhinges and oranges
the water is up to my neck, the pages are wet
i cannot grip my pen. And I’ve never been able to
open my eyes under water
so I can only feel it now.
feel myself screaming and feel the bubbles leaving my mouth
feel my hands shaking, feel myself sweating even though
i’m underwater so it doesn't make any sense
and you say to me, “Breathe. Do you know who you are? What those hands can do?”
and I can see again. And I can write.
my hair is still wet and I am still shaking
and the sheets are wet and I can still feel a
little bit of water in my throat but
i can see and i can see my words,
in the drops of my eyelashes