Today I would rather fall in love with a washing machine than a woman.
I just sat there watching my jeans whirl in the washing machine, slowly going into the lull, my eyes going lightly with them with every single gulp.
I leaned against the tub, the bottle near me, as I hummed something neutral trying to buzz out the machine’s sweet talking.
I opened my eyes.
It still spun, even if talked, moved lightly, shook heavily, but continued talking about her day.
I never kissed those whom I had loved.
I wonder what eyes would the washing girl have had?
Like the water she drenches my detachable parts into?
What would she feel like?
Afraid of germs, screeching an ‘ick’ when she’d see one?
Would she stuff my jeans into her mouth and chew, her mouth stretching, gulping the fabric until she’d turn into a huge cube, her mouth falling onto the tiles of the bathroom with a thump and use two fingers as a plug, screeching as the high voltage would take over her.
I wouldn’t be the one giving her pleasure.
I’d be watching.
Giving myself pleasure to deal with it, as it foals my body, immersing myself into her fluids as she breaks down
and my jeans are stuck inside with the second pair drenched.
I’d break the bottle cursing.
Cut my finger.
Get yelled at my new scar on my index finger.
Which shall be in the shape of a moon and she’d get thrown away with the feelings of today immersing.