I was addicted to showers, taking them twice, even three times a day, getting home when I could still count on enough hot water. Water that cascaded over my shoulders, streamed down my back and over my stomach, a lover who kissed my neck and tasted my mouth, horrified by the twisted patches of my ruined flesh.
I distill these moments from paged memory and expand my soul before the air runs out. Petroglyphs of vacant years fade into distant rock. Words become wounds. Nouns make me cry—mother, father, sister, my hands don’t stop clawing. I float on a makeshift raft built of the rubble from buildings. Slats of wood break beneath me and I watch each one float away, sinking and swerving in the filth as my legs create their own ripples. But I sing no Ophelia song. From the river to the sea and toward the open mouth of humanity speaking with one clear voice, I drift to a place where there are no winners or losers, where up is the same as down and there is a country called Peace. But in this world, arguments are talismans hurled at each other, where people refuse to listen.