Bathoholic

I’ve been accused, confess it’s true:

I like being in hot water,

surrounded by my rocks,

gods, goddesses, incense, glowing orbs, tiaras, crystal balls, and healing bowls.

I make my own salts: helichrysum, cedarwood, pomegranate oils infusing my skin every time I soak.

I treated myself to a ceiling projector, take it with me when I travel,

so my rocks feel at home

in the strange room full of passing energy,

another paradox: the permanence of transience,

more ancient than the ocean.

Plagued with this primal longing, I salt my own water,

ground myself with the rocks I choose,

burn my own flames, smolder my own smoke:

my breath is the wind.

Thank you for reading!