Annalisa Fiore // KITCHEN

The floor is cold and hard- no rug on it in years

kitchen lights above cast an annoying glare through my glasses.

If they are the sun, I lay directly in their harsh,

unforgiving,

rays.

There is no water. All of it

dried up.

 

I hold onto one drop of thought

but it grows.

I have not swum in too long,

My arms and legs are not used to this water;

drowning drowning drowning;

I cannot stop

thinking.

 

Someone pulled the plug on the ocean

and I go spiralling down with the water until there is no more.

 

I am on the floor

because I think too much

and the stiffness of the wood offers

reality.

There is an absence of rug under my body.

It is much too late at night for me to still be here.

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