A lot—a lot—of time is spent in bathrooms.
Hours of my day consumed lifting the hems of my shirts up to my neck, examining the hole that has been slowly, deliberately even, forming directly below my sternum like a ravenous spider bite; the skin dissolving and forming braided scars that create a cavernous pinch-bowl between my two nipples. It is so deep now that I can set small objects inside of it and they will stay there. Coins, breath mints, small rocks, lost earring-backs that I routinely discover glinting behind the toilet. I do not know what it is, this hole drilling itself through my person, but I love it. The lumpy, salvaged skin so soft and pink.It seeps, occasionally; mostly at night. I prefer to imagine that it is the hole itself weeping at the beauty of its unworldly conception. You can’t see it through my shirts—thank heavens!—the cloth covers it completely. Not even a shadow of the mystery buried in the middle of my ribs. I can almost see through it now, the skin between my front and back so thin.