Waiting for the Plumber

water is rising on the bathroom floor

soaking into the white carpet of the bedroom making it dark, squishing between my toes as I run with armfuls of towel to try and dry this unimaginable mess up

all by myself

and I can’t get the water to stop, it is coming from the drains the toilet, the faucet, and the shower head-

it is the second biggest outpouring I have ever witnessed, but nothing could compare to the way I let myself gush from a wide open mouth

so much ink that there wasn’t enough paper in the entire house for the words to be put on, I inked them into my skin and they aren’t even all my own, just reminders of when I didn’t know

how to use my voice

lines and dashes and dots were the only way I could express everything that had been building in my pipes and the carpets are still the wrong shade,

people leap over the darkest spots when I let them inside because they aren’t sure of what the stains are

I still don’t know how to clean up myself, my once white carpets should be pulled and I would replace them with hardwood but therapy is so expensive that I’ll wait until the baseboards rot and then I’ll move out of the house

Waiting for the plumber