Something Chrome

There is an unused bathroom left to disrepair of the back of the kitchen in a previous home. The bath shows signs of former use and now is bin for various incarnation of detritus – I cannot remember what flotsam, jetsam, lagan. No apparatus is totally barred from imagined use through each entreaty would involve the existing reverse jetsam in its path. Bathe with a box, shit with a poster roll, something chrome. Behind is a sickly lamp, behind my head in conspiracy with the faded light of a window. And I face the mirror which I draw lines on with a lipstick bar. I have seen myself and think of myself in-visible and the act too, invisible. For when I am prompted to explain that for some time I have been marking with a line and a cross of the lines at five strokes, that it is the number of times I imagine I might kiss a particular a girl, I am surprised and ashamed. I thought it was a private experience. I thought I was in my mind. The memory was transfigured in another home which has a black garbage bin liner for a shower curtain.

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