Things seemed better. They always do don't they?
But then your thoughts build up, your emotions seep out of you. And you look for a basin to catch them, fear that if they spill to the floor they'll stain the carpet.
The carpet needs replacing as is- but why muss it up further?
So you pour yourself into every pot, pan, kettle, serving tray, ladle you own. You stop up the tub and sit in it, leaking these feelings. These awful writhing emotions.
But the tub fills, is spills over the sides and stains the grout. The grout which you haven't scrubbed since you moved in.
You're overflowing alongside all the already-too-full pots, pans, serving trays, ladles...and bathtub.
So you spew yourself into the toilet. Flush as it goes down but it's coming out of you faster than you can flush. faster than the pipes, which were already leaking, can handle. So you stumble to the kitchen and spill into the sink. But it gets all plugged up, the garbage disposal which has been indisposed for the last two months, makes a garbled choking sound.
So you give in. You slink onto the floor and watch as everything spews out of you. You look at all the filled-to-the-brim vessels were rendered useless by your constant spewing.
Surrounded in a sopping heap of towels, which haven't been washed in far too long, you drain.
But there's no end in sight. It keeps flooding out of you. you can't seem to plug it up. Shaky hands tying off crude sutures just to burst at the seams.
All attempts failed. Flooded, drowned. The house fills to the windows, leaks out the front door. The grass, which has browned and shriveled, now damp and muddy from your overwhelm.
And your words echoing in your head
"My, my, how embarrassing this will be when the neighbors find me like this"
You claw at yourself. Begging yourself to just shut up. Stop spewing. Stop letting these feelings continue to storm out of you. To just shut up and keel over. Anything- anything to make the flooding stop. Anything to hold on to what ever shred of dignity you had left.
You walk to the sea. Here, if i overflow, the ocean will hide my shame. You walk until your feet beg for contact with the sand. You walk until the top of your head is cooled with foam. You walk until your lugs scream to flood themselves with brine.
My, my, how embarrassing it must be to be a fish who cant survive the ripcurrent. How embarrassing it must be to drown in the very thing that makes you a fish.
