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She knelt down in front of the tired iron sink, an ironic metaphor. Metal has many memories, it has been trapped together with its atoms close for too long. It can remember every little hand that has touched it and the memories poured on to it by open and closed minds.

The hands are holding the rim softly, they lead down pale arms onwards, stretching down to the burning floor. Sweat comes out and you stick to everything, gently peeling off your objects, not wanting to hurt your skin or theirs. The memories you associate with possessions should be placed mind-fully. If you get it wrong they will distort. One thing into another. Tea-pot to a kettle, couch to a sofa, and a teddy to a bear. Just watch out is all she wants to say. Be careful of what your mind is doing behind your fluttering eyes and your speaking lips because you can't be caring constantly both looking and telling.

There's no water in the sink. Hasn't been for a while now and drinking is no longer thought of. Water has turned into a far away country. When your lips become dry they want to talk more. They forget they are heated gravel with no moist tongue to stop the searing, summer heat. The body aches for what it cannot have. Those words are always uttered softly in different forms. I was told them under the cold sheets of a spring camp. We woke too early and found dew had collected on our socks.

Please just remember she choked out through the congealed bile that was her throat. Remember that if you give pieces of yourself away to strangers you'll never get them back. Be careful what you give and be careful what you receive.

Once he had asked her what it was like to be her.
What was it like? What was it like to be inside her head and see everything through such a mind? It's like you're both in and out of a fish tank. You look in through the algae covered glass. It is lit muskily in a cheap restaurant and you tell the hopeless waiter which fish you want to dine upon. Except you don't know which one is you and who of them are the people you love.
It is like living underwater and looking up through sun dappled chlorine, not wanting to surface because everything is too sharp when you're not submerged.
He always asked the questions, the questions that made her think about everything too much. He didn't want the answers, he didn't even realise what he was asking. Across the classroom she'd steal glances, it didn't matter if he looked back. She knew he had no thoughts, she was just wanted to touch his skin. Stay away from the deceiving husks her Mother whispered.
It didn't comprehend that he made her mind race so fast with new thoughts that made the tongue bitter in her mouth. These were the thoughts that craved for distraction. They were too consuming to be looked at completely, you needed to look at them side-on in case they scalded your mind.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop burning me with your delicate fingers. Stop plunging them, scalding, deep into my chest. Stop touching everything you find in there, they're not there to be touched by you. They're secret. Don't you understand? Don't you hear my words when I breathe them into your neck? When I pour them out like grains into a glass jar.
We're both stuck, talking-not listening, hearing-not understanding.

"You were sitting alone today"
"I know. I didn't want to hear the words arranged that way anymore"
"Oh, do I do it too?"
"Yes, you do. So do I. It's why I don't speak"
"Can't we just be together in silence?"
"No, that's not how it works"