Wash me, I cry, as the washcloth glides over my limbs, sore from the day and achy from unspent emotion. I long to be clean, the dark tears peeled away, making what is underneath luminescent. I want to be scrubbed young, innocent and protected.
It’s so hot in this room, I feel as if I were melting away. It doesn’t seem to be any particular season or time of year, as this strange phenomenon of limbo is creeping up on me more and more lately. Sometimes the ambiguous fog chokes me, but other times I merely decide to go with the flow. There are characters at the back of my mind, imploring me to let them out, while at the same time I’m asking the same thing of them. Whom is really freed in this jumbled relationship? What might they produce in a marathon of writing? Am I their main character, and, if so, is this my desire?
I think it is, yes.
Etcetera 