I’m walking through this with my pants rolled up; I tip-toe through the muck, trying to prevent it from actually sticking to my jeans, but instead it seeps in through my socks and soaks my skin, leaving a sickish film that won’t wash off for days. It’s a familiar scenario with repeated results, yet I still take the time to roll up my pants before I make my way to you.
You sit amid the flood, legs comfortably tucked under you, as if you’ve controlled it all all along. Your lazy-boy island in an underwater room shelters you from whatever creatures swim amid the ottomans and coffee tables. You’re positioned above the domestic, within it but with no need for it and no fear of it. Congratulations, you’ve avoided the trap. You are still free, and I am knee-deep in an anonymous goo that’s determined to ruin my only good pair of pants.
The things that are wrong with my brain 