Leif H

[leif-h]

soup

darker, darker, darker- pressure consumes my body, water presses inwards, i’m drowning- dying.

the fish eat my insides, the rocks eat my outsides, i’m turned into a slurry of pressure-cooked downsides.

air escapes my labyrinth, my blood cells are minotaurs chasing after fleeing life.

and fat and muscle and bones and nerves and hairs and eyes and lines and curves all become molecules in a boundless solution- my body becomes water-

life’s inevitable dilution.

[leif-h]

death by detergent

your favorite t-shirt from when you were twelve, your favorite black jeans that made you feel held, the clothes you will always obsessively wear, into the washer- they fade and tear.

your blue hawaiian shirt you brought to hawaii, your black socks and sweat pants for whenever you’re lazy;

every week or two, they have to be washed, black becomes blue, designs become lost.

the more that you wear them, the sooner they will leave, you’re heartbroken- you plead,

but water doesn’t care for you or me.

because clothes have a life spin cycle- they change as they age- because matter won’t last forever, not even your favorite beige.

and at the end of time, your clothes will wash away,

and the colors of your heart, will never stay the same.