honestly, I have no idea.

maybe the water will carry me away.

Standing in the kitchen
fingers against the sink
oh have I washed my hands of the skin
that is weathered with years
a museum of life
in the cracks of wrinkled flesh
a murky bubble
on the surface of a smile
that is floating just above my fingertips
a reflection I dare not catch

They have slipped their dirty fingers in every available hole
the pull of justice
carrying weight from one palm to another
there is no escape
no wings to move you
so you slide belly up
your legs a flutter
your every vital word stifled
overexposed

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