Most mornings you were in the sink. A feeling resulting from a lack of interest. To discover a process of remembering. To imagine a narrative. Or to build one. Our bedroom, barely lit. Something constantly unraveling–revealing we are made of bone. Another room, with walls. Only words inside. Sometimes I remember our babysitter. Long brown hair grew right out of her.
Nothing was hidden. On weekends we lived our private lives. Our mother had one too. The idea of it touched us. We were held by it. Language made things complicated. We lived behind our headaches. Our friends, behind us. All our thoughts turned black. Or liquid. Somewhere I was escaping. A doorway. An impulse. Towels wrapped around skin.
No one apologized. How we were bleeding and they just let us bleed. How they said we had to get it out of our systems. How they told us our systems wanted it out. I only felt attracted to straight lines. Rivers were shallow. Legs parted. People traveled with us. Often keys were lost. The little ones were in charge of recording.