Dissociation

Hands hovering above the sink. The sound of blinds shuttering doesn’t make me blink. The mirror catches all. A shining chasm on the wall. Across the threshold, into the sound. Sounds indistinct so I don’t turn around. I could have crashed, but still I don’t blink. Next thing you know, it’s the kitchen sink. Hands in soapy water. Water that slowly gets harsh and colder. But I don’t feel anymore. There could be nothing outside that door. Although, I suppose, there’s probably grass and flowers. But I’d rather sit inside for hours. My hands are washed, the dishes are dry. Nothing is real, so why even try?