i am pinioned to my pastby which i meanthe means we use to forgeti have forgotten.so each bath tub representsa bathroom without mirrorsa door that does not locka privacy decreed as unnecessarygiven the necessity of keeping this mental breakdown privatefrom public eyes.i cannot separate the swirl of heataround my anklesfrom angling my way throughunwanted intrusionsby head-shrinkersshrinking onlymy sense of selfas all selves sensewhen they are being lied to.the bath tubs were grey stainless steelshallow and shower-less-curtains could be killers so much safer to have us batheand savea lifeas well as water.i am a daughter of madness.the weight of witcheswhich flow through my blood while i wait for some becoming,some summoningof past selves into the milieu-yes, there is spacefor each of you.these precious moments of momentary silencebut for the clock tick,the precision of each knocktimelessand if i don't voice that i'm not drowning myselfdown comes the fervour of workers(dubbed as such - never wardens).at very least we could keep things civilizedand keep the lies to a minimumthrough use of colourful metaphorsthat we've met beforeon all our journeys backto the grey ward with the doorsthat do not lockin any way that matters.the steam inhalation and exaltation of this brief momentof solitudewhether in my own homeor elsewhere,i'm always reaching back to a bodyyoung and scared and unawareof what ways damagecan damage you.of how honesty requires access to truth.and whether truth or honestyor the real rawness of it allwill ever leaveor let never bea place of retreat,i'm still caught by the memoryin murky bath water already gone coldand getting colder - but now i'm older,i own my time in this tub- no proof i'm alivethat i have to giveto anyone - any one of my lives or liescan no longer be taken from mebut must be ownedas joy or miseryand no miserly accountof the countless wayswe're given undignified treatmentto treat the waysour indignant madnessdemonstratesto others:life is not a neat thingall buttoned-up-buttonsand organized shelvesit is instead a myriad of selvesbattling for validityor otherwise unveiling our battlesas prizesas proof positivewe've positively denied thisas being anything other thanhuman animal persistence: we don't give weight to the civilized worldin factwe deny its existence.

on finding my way back home