The room is spinning. Spin it faster.
Till the walls are houndstooth. Till the denim is silk.
Till the RV is a limo is a sailboat is a plane, first class.
Till the water is wine and the conversation is better.
The pages are falling out of my books. Gone like me. Gone digital. There won’t be any pages soon. No library smell. No faded text or dog ears. What’s next when they’re gone? Does the spring fall out of my step? Do I fall from grace? Do I lose my hair? My sense of humor? Will my pages fall out? Not yet. Not till I check out, and I think I just checked in.
With turndown service, champagne, and chocolate coated strawberries by the window, with roses and a welcome card. I haven’t even unpacked yet. I’m just settling in. Putting my ambition on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. Hanging my killer instinct in the closet and remembering to iron it into perfect shape so I can wear it out tonight. Below on the floor, a neat row of black and blingy high horses, soapboxes, and podiums. How else does a girl rise above and get noticed? Any advantage is one worth taking. Next spreading my fog of war and arsenal of sweet little lies across the bathroom counter. I’ll be back for those after I shower.
Stripping naked, leaving a trail of 5-minutes-ago across the floor of the room to the bathroom. My secret waterfall. A place to come clean or get dirty as occasion may require. Dangerous or sweet. Siren or mermaid. Either way, I’m Queen of the water. Lady of the Lake. It rolls down my arms and shoots off my fingers and I wield it like a sea witch, like I did when I was 6 years old, like I did last night before bed, like I always have, like I never did, like it never mattered and when the drops hung heavy like words in the air. Falling and shattering like glass. Tearing time. Ripping the curtain between worlds before setting it on fire. I may wield water, but I’m that blaze. That flare. The spark. I’m that heat. And I’m the ashes that wash down the drain.