Neurotic

At night I become particularly neurotic.

I have gone about experimenting with remedies.
One in which I read my book.
Another in which I watch a show.
Tonight I cleaned my tub.
Rather than using a sponge or a wash rag,
I found myself using my bare hands.
There was something about the rubbing of white porcelain against my fingertips...

I gave my tub a bath.
As the steaming hot water ran from the faucet in a continuous stream; the bubbles grew.
The air around me became foggy and thick.
The dirty water climbed to my wrists.
The drain was clogged.
I dug my fingers into the drain and pulled at the hair.
Long strands slung out; slimy, and dark with grim.

Instantly, I thought of my dear friend, carrying a child inside of her, years too young.
I remember her fine, dark hair would fall into her face and stick to the sides of her mouth where the spit gathered when she talked.
And we talked quite often.
We grew up together.
I knew her dreams, and she knew mine.
We told each other everything, and took care of each other when the rest of the world closed us out.
She was my best friend, my soul sister.

I can feel my face scowl in disgust as I rip at the hair violenltly.
I miss her.
The water continued to rise; higher and higher towards my elbows.
I pulled harder at the dark hair tangled deep inside the drain.
My dear friend Taylor.
It was no use.

I shut off the water, leaned back onto the pink bathroom rug, and listened to the water ping off the grit.