Hot water splashes against my face, opens up my pores like a dress with lace. I press liquids into my skin, anticipating my next win. A morning matcha enriches the body, detoxifying some of my worry. Yet sweetened with syrup of too much abundance, My wrists are tied to fecal redundance. Forcing routines into my brain, like sewing a wound to dampen the pain. Up, up, up, the chains detain. What will I gain, if I refrain? The mouldy gold grabs a hold, inhabiting threads, spun gl