I can see them, ominous... Staring me down like I'm already guilty. Poorly portrayed as sloppy wet suds, caressing supine porcelain... Dressed distastefully in last nights pasta sauce. Their emptiness, somehow my applaud. Filthy. A sad metaphor for that hollow feeling in my gut. Sizing me up and and trying to nip at my feet. In some way a reminder of overthrown success. Absorbing me like a sponge, lawn side down to scrub away any sense of inadequacy I've lacked. Locking me in, scolding my hands as I work to regain an idea of what normalcy looks like... Soft pale ceramic hues glistening under my faucet's waterfall. As the drying rack begins to fill, and I watch the last of the soapy episode circle the drain. Bubbles holding on to the cross hairs like a sad lover. And in the climax of my self loathing I manage to bare a grin. My lungs feel lighter, my breath deep. The weight of "ME" floating off of my shoulders for fragmented seconds. Calmness irising in on my heart and dancing with it's new beat.
In hindsight, I am buying paper plates.
