I am the room around you. When I died, I entered the refrigerator innards, the feathers spat on the bed, the cups on hooks drilled wall-wise in a starburst, the temple of dogshit on the floor, the trash schnauzered across the porch. You need to walk our dog.
I am the water seaming pebbles at the tank’s bottom. I am the anus of our only fish. When he gets some speed, his shit-string rises like a cape. It has been days since you fed him. We never knew his sex. Now, I am the genital truth of things.
I see you too sick to eat, curled like a shrimp on the coverlet. I am the shower-head you sit underneath. I am the ringing phone. I am the voice of your only mother calling, concerned.
You undercook a chicken breast and decide it’s unsafe. You overcook the other breast and toss out the desiccated body. That night, our dog upends the trash, and you scream out in rage and boredom at the bad, sad thing.
I am the calcified plaques inside the toilet’s rim, those scaly islands of love. You are developing a kidney stone: gem in the guts. I see it tumble and learn its crystal burden. I harbor you like an amethyst inside a dying, unwashed dog.
But know that each minute, we are drifting. We are becoming more of ourselves, made unbearable in our particularity. I am the growing place inside of you, that will crack its door and let you out.