The bathroom floor. All drama for a woman climaxes unleashing on a bathroom floor. But that was too ordinary, and she was everything but. So instead of letting it all out on the bathroom floor, she chose the kitchen. Back then, being a total undomestic goddess, she amused herself that it was enough of an unfamiliar territory, and she felt it made the exchange that much more comfortable. Like two strangers revealing dark secrets during the night of a cross country train ride, not having to feel the vulnerability of the unveiled self to familiar territories once the sunlight strikes it all back to reality. So she slowly dropped down, her back against the wall, crying. Whispering through dry tears, she confessed her feelings to the quiet kitchen floor, and let the silence heal her.
She was shy, timid, and incredibly credulous. She saw the world through her heart, and her heart knew no fear, no lie, no tricks. She came and went as she was. Like a child. A child in the body of a young woman. Her skin was pale, her body was long, her hair was dark and so were her eyes. And when he saw her, he made her his. Why would he not? How could he not? His darkness couldn’t resist her light. It was a natural attraction, written in both their destinies, the magnetic pull of opposing charges. Everything she was, he was not. She made him feel lighter, and that felt good because the weight of his soul’s decisions had been weighting him down lately. She was a bright escape, a moment of freshness and cleanliness. His soul was viscid as were his thoughts that he weaved underneath her feet as a spider would a spider web. And so she was stuck. Her heart was fastened and his intentions wrapped it with a bow.
“I am more than in love with you” he whispered in her ear as she slept in his arms, and then kissed her slowly down her back. She heard his breath next to her, and felt home. She had been home ever since he locked eyes with her a few months back. His stare was focused and precise. It waited for her playful look to finally settle into his. Once it did, it never left. Despite his precautionary fortress built against life, the beauty of this living thing, this love, invaded. And he pleasantly surrendered to it, but only for about a minute. He felt fulfilled and satisfied, a complete sense of gluttony from the love she'd given him.
The weeks followed and he claimed himself mature, and labelled her otherwise. He proceeded by shutting the door behind him, collapsing into the darkness filled with the arms of many, each and every one unlike her. And so there she was now, incomplete, left alone confessing her pain to her kitchen floor. Where would all the love she felt for him, go? What was she to do with it, as this love had become her entire being, the only energy that pulsed her heart?
The years have passed, and the forgiving magic wand of time has healed. Her. Not him, as he still yearns her light and reaches for it when darkness overwhelms him. But the arms of many hold him back, a prisoner of his own desires. And each and every time he reaches out and taps into her world, she goes back to her kitchen floor, and scrubs it really well and hard. And through that scrubbing, she’s magically given the ability to go back and change that event from her life, in order to go forward. "It must be clean. It has to be." She tells herself as she’s scrubbing on her hands and knees. She’s kneeled down again on the same floor but for a different reason. Through her scrubbing, she’s changing that night from the past that she spent crying out her contortioned soul onto her kitchen floor. She’s scrubbing it all out. It must be clean. Her lovely son runs across it every day with his small and chubby feet, as she engulfs him with a hug of light.
