Where am I, when you come?

Will I be standing in the shower, on a day where I decided yet again that this will be the day where everything will start perfect and I will wash away the sometimes sudden longing of not having to wake up and wonder when I will die, or where.

Or how.

So here I am, in the shower, naked. And I don’t need to be this clean, but I just love to cover myself in water, if only I had a shower that sprayed warm water over me from every angle I think that would be heaven. I think it reminds me of being in my mother’s womb.

But the difference between then and now is dark..

..turned into light.

So now I am here, grown up, or at least I have the age of somebody who is increasingly being addressed as ma’am. Washing my hair, massaging my skull, my hair. Washing my body with this coconut smell substance that makes my skin as soft as it is wet. Would it happen there that I die?

Will it happen before I had my coffee and my milk and oatmeal?

And which way do I fall? Does my body prevent the water from escaping down the drain, and having no time to turn the water down, it just fills up the whole bathroom, making me lie dead in a pool that after it has reached 2 inches it stays the same level because by then it has overflowed into the hallway.

When will people notice me? Not when the water runs out, because it won’t. Only the hot water does, so eventually I will be lying in cold water, making me pruny.

They will find me wet and naked, all pruny, in the shower.

Dead.

Or? Or does my heart stop while I am dressing myself, a few feet away from where I just survived death?

They would find me lying on the same cold floor, but now dried off, and they would know I put on my underwear before I put on my socks. And if I die  inbetween putting on my socks, they would know I always put on the left one first. What would they decide that I should wear on my funeral? Would they let to keep the socks on? Would they clothe me in the clothes that already layed on my washing machine? Would they smell it first, and know that I have been wearing it at least more than one day, and that I have applied sunscreen during my previous wearing?

They would notice the perfume in my bra, I think this is one of the best smells in life, how the insides of a woman’s bra smells. Now don’t go around smelling bra’s, do this only with the girl you are in love with (and the affect is mutual). Or would they first wash me, and try to put my body in that same shower that I just escaped you in? Would the goosebumps be still on me when they find me, because the floor is cold.

Or will you give me the last coffee and milk with oatmeal? Will it come while making coffee? While bending over to get coffee milk out of the fridge? While reaching on the shelf to get coffee pads out of the jar that says ‘coffee’ on it. Or while getting the jar sitting next to it, saying ‘sugar’?

Will I find you while I refill the coffee machine because I am low on water? Or when I press the button for the coffee to start running? Will I make it to put the sugar actually in my mug? May I still stir? Can I take a sip? Will I die during the smile I get because having coffee in the early morning is heavenly, especially from the black mug, that says coffee on it. Will I fall dead during my walk from the kitchen to my study room, while holding the mug? Then they will find me dead in the hallway, with brown splatter on my green wall, or maybe the brown will have turned into a different color once they find me. I am almost sure that it will have dripped down a little though, whatever color it would be. If they find me during my first serving of coffee, which they will not know by just looking at the broken mug on the floor, but if there is still poo inside me, then you can almost be certain I didn’t have my second cup. Because coffee makes me want to go.

At least I will be fully dressed if they find me during coffee. The same goes for the milk and oatmeal thing. A dead body leaning towards the fridge, probably the fridge is still open, I wonder how long the light stays on, but leaning towards the fridge, with the intention of reaching for the milk, that I have stored in the door of the fridge. Oh, by the way, if you would ever find me dead in my house and you don’t find an opened card of milk, or a still unopened one somewhere, you can safely assume that it is a death that didn’t come naturally. My house will never be without milk. Nor oatmeal. Nor a working kitchen scale. 150grams of milk. 46grams of oatmeal. 14grams of seeds.

Oh, but please.. dear death, don’t come while I am taking a shit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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