Drip Drop

I want to twist and turn my thoughts into something else and squeeze out the guts of my imagination onto the floor. It spills and splashes—burns like acid, eating away at the floorboards—sizzling, bubbling, melting, dripping—opening up the underside to the world underneath. It’s cold down there, and dark, and smells like breath in the wintertime. I spit into it to see how far it goes, but I missed and hit my shoe. So I try again, this time with a string of spit brought up from the back of my throat, spit out slow so I can watch where it goes.

Drip!

The spit-string breaks. One end slaps me in the face, while the other falls.

It’s still falling, or it fell too far to hear land. I’ll drop a penny down instead.

Drop!

It won’t go in! It’s stuck to the floor like the hole wasn’t there, or maybe covered with an invisible film, or just covered in a coat of paint to make it look like an imaginary acid hole.

Nope! It’s a trap! I tried to pick the penny up and fell in it! But luckily my legs caught me before it was too late. I’m hanging from them head-first into this bottomless black pit.