A Bubbling Account

The purple plastic container, orange nails gutting through that soapy fishing hole, hooking for the wand that will cast the most delicate of orbs to float like dandelion puffs cast in a western wind. Bubbles reflecting oily rainbows. Bubbles capturing fragments of moments. Bubbles snapshotting the simplest of seconds. Reflecting sheared straight brunette bangs in the backyard- with the curly bouvier and the plastic crab sandbox where I burrowed until you’d shout at me for ruining the pleated skirts that ants marched along searching for their home, and I sat in the prickly grass picking sharp grains of sand off of my scalp like a monkey scrounging for termites.

Showering the prom dance floor floating effortlessly above burned hair and slathered faces. Knife-like heels stabbing each globule as we clacked along, dancing to music we don’t enjoy, avoiding people we don’t like. Thousands of tiny eyes staring back, in the bowl of a toilet. Small mirrors of water and bile and remnants of a dispelled stomach. A huddled skeleton crouched, lightheaded, listlessly watching thousands of bubbles gawking back. A reflective staring contest. A single flush would cast a tornado of that same blue toilet water in grandma’s bathroom. The toxic smell to wash away the proof of a purge. These refractions of light capture moments like the single tongued sheets- printed out from a polaroid camera and I make it my duty to pop every last one with my sharp stares. Never trust the uncertainty of carefree soap. Like the freshness of dirt and the patterns in linoleum and the porcelain chairs, I crave more stability than children’s spewing spit bubbles from their babbling mouths.

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