There's a sink in my soul.
It's dirty, corroded and antique.
I've long since ignored that of the three overhanging light bulbs,
Only one remains lit.
It doesn't work at all this sink,
But everyday it overflows.
I wash myself solely from this sink.
With is dirty, smelly, septic water.
And it's grainy dirt sponge on my body as an exfoliate
The drips of flow are interrupted by air pockets
That make it burst sometimes as jets of water.
I hate how I smell at times,
But it's the only place I have to wash at all.
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