Okay, so this isn't done yet. I know it's wierd, and no, I don't know where I'm going with it.
Shadow born, I find your guilt hovering around the corner. It's porous texture seeps under my skin and fills my insides with gunk. Accidents speak louder than words.
My hair dripping a steady plop, plop rhythmic pattern that reminds me of Chinese Water torture, only the water is falling onto the tile floor of my bathroom, not onto my porous forehead. I have just gotten out of the shower and I'm staring at my reflection in the water of the toilet bowl. If only my skin were as clear and white, my lips as contrasting, my hair and eyes as dark and lustrous as they seem in the colorless reflection. I might as well be asking for a rearrangement of my features, so that my ears are on my forehead and my eyes are on my chin. I sigh and stand up quickly, perversely enjoying the tunnel vision. I love how it reminds me of turning off really old television sets, how they bring the picture down to a dot and then flash out into a line and disappear. I only get halfway to the dot. I open the door and enjoy the sudden rushing transfer of the steamy hot air from the bathroom and the cool dry air from the hallway. I pad out into the hallway wrapped in a fuzzy wine red towel, the golden brown carpet brightened by the sun shining through the stained glass window above the staircase. I walk the short distance to my room and open the door. As I pass my boombox I press the hard, cold, inanimate, play button. Music seems to be a major part of my life and Enya has alwas been the best meditational mover. My bedsheets, blankets and comforters are arranged in their usual nest-like bundle. A drop water slides from my not-quite-dry shoulder drawing a thin line down my back, incurring a twitch of ticklishness. I dress in a pair of grey silky cotton pants and a t-shirt. I draw a brush through my tangled knot of hair, smoothing it down, slick like some sleazy used-car dealer's hair. As usual I wonder whether my hair would turn into a nest if I never bothered to brush it, and if birds would prefer my head to a branch as a nesting sight. I grin at the obvious reasons why this would not work. I scowl in the mirror at the dark circles under my eyes and the white pallor of my face in general. I wish that my skin would decide between a healthy pink tone and a sickly yellow white color. I wander out into the hallway and downstairs to the ever so welcome smell of cornbread waffles, rice sausages, eggs and maple syrup. One of my black cats is running up the steps to give me the customary morning demand for attention. She rubs her head against my leg and then finds that my feet still smell slightly of Irish Spring soap, so she starts to lick them, making me giggle. I attempt to push the cat away in vain, laughing at the funny wet sandpapery feel of her tongue. She's very determined, so I simply sigh and continue down the stairs, ignoring the cat's meowing of annoyance. I pad into the kitchen, feeling my feet stick to the linoleum surface. I see my dad setting out plates for a family meal and grin seeing our old funky brown and black plates. He sets down the container of maple syrup and the butter and turns to look at me. His white hair flops onto his forehead.