At my bathroom sink

I am my truest self. There are no rules, it's all free game. Practice dance moves I've seen others do, posing for paparazzi that, in my realm, are nonexistent.

In my bathroom, standing in front of the sink,

I hit all the highest notes accompanied by James Blake

and film music video scenes for all the songs in my 'liquid feminine' playlist.

I am crying, I am laughing, I am sobbing, I am screaming and cheering and slobbering,

And all of this happens in front of my bathroom sink. Where I shade slightly hooded eyelids

in purples that were meant to be blues, swipe lashes with black clumps, meant to be smooth.

Stopping for overhead shots, of the real ness of my bathroom sink, filled with discared

cotton rounds, dirtied q tips, most definitely put deep in ears, press on nails

so lovingly popped off, now gunked with glue that crusts my finger tips, too.

There are often pendants laying on the edge, you see this sink is not huge.

Wire wrapped crystals hang where towels should be, and costume

jewelry's scatters about.

This is my sacred space, the place I can truly be myself. At my sacred sink, there is no judgment and there are no rules. Just coffee spills accompanying my own becoming.