The bathroom wall moves. It ripples and sways with the mournful, desolate sound of the radio. Ocean blues and greens meant to calm only inspire vertigo. What are those things I see? Leaves? Seashells? Jealous sea foam? I lay back, releasing my grip as the tub empties and my consciousness follows circling slowly, among the dirty water before it all disappears down the drain together.
Waiting for your call I pace, I sit, I lay down, I stand up, I check the time, I wipe the sweat away, I pretend to read, I sweat more, I change shirts, I remember to breathe, I evaluate my chest pain, I fidget and tic, I freeze, catatonic as the phone rings, and I am exhausted before I even begin.
Depression barges in again.
No invitation.
No explanation.
No deposit.
No references.
No promises.
And no move out date.
I collect memories, or perhaps, more accurately, they collect me. They've taken over the bed and the bedroom. They've wandered down the hall to congregate in the guest room. Still too crowded, some migrate to the couch, the stove, and the fridge. A few have even taken up swimming in the bathtub or driving my old Saturn. Like Tribbles, or Gremlins, they multiply fast - and require constant supervision.
Rhea, Cronus and baby Zeus snuggle in the heart of Mount Olympus. Father plots infanticide, while son sleeps, dreaming world domination. Mother shakes her head and rolls her eyes yet again at the foolishness of men.
When I was a kid, I would buy my parents cigarettes, I would lie for them, I would steal for them, I would deliver their meals, I would pick up the debris after explosive arguments, then I would nurse their wounds (both emotional and physical). I was a servant, pasting on a fake smile while hatred and rage bubbled within at my slavery.
Country music soothing, sympathetic - acoustic guitar with a twang. Striking the heart - squeezing it like a juicer until the tears cleanse the wound.
I never knew the place I hold in your heart would be put up for rent. Eviction notice at my feet, I box up my things, leave the key, and search the world for shelter.
Fifty years from now,
self-annihilation
may become
a highly prized,
expressive art,
or even qualify as
the newest
springtime sport.
I always was
ahead of my
time.
