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?
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