folded limbs

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. If you were to ask why, which of course I hope you do. I would lie. I would tell you it is because I like the cool metal to touch and tickle my ankles and droplets of water to escape and find clothing or skin on the way to meet the rest of its existence. I might even tell you that sitting elevated in a bask of cramped freedom makes me feel important. Like I am younger. I need to be bathed and fed and cared for. To have my hair brushed.