These days my mistakes run deeper.

They sink deep into my skin,

slick as oil,

marking their way through the curve of my elbows,

the small of my back, the folds in my wrist.

Sometimes I like to think I’d melt in the hot water:

slip through the drain and through the pipes,

aimlessly drifting into the night,

shielded from the moon’s gaze in a shroud of black metal and murky water-

spit out somewhere at the bottom of the sea.

The sun would rise as I did- 

slowly, surely.

It’d be dead centre in the sky as I surfaced

with my back wrapped in cold water, face warm with sunshine.

And I’d lay all my tired thoughts gently out to dry,

like clothes on bamboo poles,

letting them evaporate in sweet summer air.