The Leak

open heart surgery

In the dark, the only sound is the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink. It drills into my brain and I turn left and right, but my eyes wide open stare at nothing. I don’t know how to fix the leak, so I let the water go where it wants, maybe a river or sea far, far away, leaving here to get peacefully polluted in the sunshine.

In the dark, I make up shapes of nothing and feel so empty that I think, maybe there’s a leak in me too. I can feel it, the quiet throbbing at the back of my head where something is escaping. I think, maybe that’s why I see no colour and the trees are grey in July. I think, maybe that’s why my heart never flutters and there’s no butterflies in my stomach, only ever-sleeping worms.

I don’t know how to fix the leak. If you could open me up, spread my ribs apart and plunge your arms elbow-deep, would it be warm? The blood moving around, bubbling around your fingers, maybe it would feel alive, urgent. Would you find the leak and fix it, fix me up again?

I think of all the good things that leaked out of me as I listen to the drip, drip, drip of the water. It tells me, you and I are one. That’s why I never feel the rush, or the sorrow, just the boredom of an unremarkable life.

While you’re there, my chest cavity open to the elements, my heart naked and beating, vultures circling above in anticipation, would you kiss me to see if I come back to life?

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