I’d like to think there’s
something infinitely mystic about bubbles. Something
that grabbed the irises of my
childhood eye
How does it shine like that?
What happens if I eat it? Will
my hands ever be quick enough to
catch one?
Took me some time to realize I
ended up inside one but
wasn’t shiny and soapy like
my mind made it out to be. I spent my time slipping
and floating around looking for mirrors
because I couldn’t see anyone that looked
like me.
Why are they looking at me
like that? What happens if they
get uncomfortable? Will
my shaking hands let them
know I’m still not
fast enough to catch anything?
My mother told me, “a habit becomes a habit
after 21 days”. I began only understanding
this type of ~mirror language~.
My irises mixing with soap morphing,
blurring the lighter faces. Their
words static in my ears.
Does Mom see it like I do?
.
.
.
What happens when you burst
a bubble? And who can? My
hands still aren’t strong or fast enough
to do it from the inside.
I have grown used to smiling,
and “I’m good. How are you”-ing
at the sound of static and
blurred voices