March 13, 2013 § Leave a comment
Sometimes I feel like soup, sloshing against the side of a flask.
Or drowning in a tomato-stained bowl, with not even a carrot to keep me afloat.
I lie on the kitchen floor, SPLAT, a puddle of gritty stock-cube mess.
I hold my face tight against the cold tiles and stop thinking.
I am water and herbs and skin, with nowhere to go and nothing to leave behind.
Slurp me up through a straw and leave me wrinkled and deflated like a discarded raisin.
Watch me disappear down the plughole, hugging the metal as I fall away.
Stirring around and around with the sun and the moon and this ladle spine.
Sometimes I feel like soup. And sometimes I feel nothing at all.