self-portrait as a drain

the drain in my parents' house is
always clogged. i haven't showered there
in years but the water tasted
like hair & fingernails. the fists in my throat
& the lake that i form. a waterfall from
the crown of a house. once our basement
flooded & i went down there, opened my mouth
& swallowed all the water & the bolts &
the terrors of floating away. my favorite drain
was in a hotel in tennessee. the water 
rushed away as if nothing had happened.
as if i was not trying to escape my life
through portals cut with box knives. 
i only showered at my ex's house once.
the drain was slow. good enough. i saw 
considered taking a bath. another ex 
lived with his parents still & they had
a claw foot tub. i felt useless. tried to use
my mouth like a doorbell. we drank hot tea
& they had something they called,
"second dinner." when i slept in the guest room
at my friend's house, their drain shined
as if someone was paid to clean it. my teeth
are dull & yellowish but i have long
relinquished all fixations on looks. instead,
i celebrate the drain as a site of angels & prophets.
the goodbye place. i invite everyone i know
to my drain & we all drop in a fragment
of someone we need to forget. i clip the tip
off my tongue as if it were a cockatoo wing. 
once i poured a whole carton of milk.
i did not know why. if i could change one thing
about myself it would probably be that i am
not at all a fountain or a well. how does it feel
to be necessary? i want to go back in time to when
the first house was built. cover the walls
with drains. there i am standing in a flock. 
get away, get away, get away.