14) Soup

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.


Blended rainbow.


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.


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