I am where ought to be home. Home is where I do the dishes. Running water. Running away down the drain. The soap and filth meet. Like two impossible friends. They make each other better. Or worse. Like friends. Bowls pass under my hands. Slippery with soap. Like blood. Warm. Sticky. Slimy. The soap is blood. Screams. The dishes are all broken. Alone. The water runs away from me .Running chasing itself down the drain. Rusty. It won’t run now. I have control. It fills up. Over the side. Water and glass and blood. The dishes are all clean. But they are broken. Like the house. Clean and Broken. Full of ghosts you can’t see. And they are silent. Too quiet. And it’s all gone in a moment. A monument to no one. Done. The glass is gone. Water has chased itself away. I stand here, washing dishes. The cups pass under my red hands. They are scalded. And worn. And Slippery with… soap. Close too close enough to reach. To retch at what I’m seeing. I’m bleeding. I’m just dreaming. It’s not real. Just reels in my mind. A movie rewinding……I’m okay now. I’m lying in my bed. I’m lying and I’m bad. Bad like the fruit. Fruit in the basket. Moldy and not ok. A cellar is moldy. Full of treasures. Buried too deep. Six Feet. Like the One who I lost. Gone now for a whisper.  Too far gone. I am. Fades like an echo. It falls like I’ve let go. Let go. Run now. Run away.  I could fit down that rusted drain. So much pain. The dragon’s been slain. A vision. An imaginary image. A dream. I scream. The dishes done.  Over and Out. Out of a deep reverie. And I see. Just dishes. All washed clean.