world with trepidation , scared of being sucked into the mud or falling into a waist deep sinkhole .
I elongate , now . I ’ m losing structure , so I lower myself to the floor and when I am eel-like enough I start to coil around the claw foot of the tub . I drag myself , sliding limbs up the porcelain . The word dry has ceased to exist : everything is beautiful and moist , and I press myself into it . I bloom like fungus . Hauling the weight of myself into the barrel of the bath takes work . I pulse up the sides ; I spill over the edges ; I wriggle serpentine . The water sings with heat , and as I enter it , I feel every immersed part of myself begin to pucker . I am thickening until I cannot be burnt . My extremities are melting away , and my insides change shape until I am not human but a collection of moving points , tentacled . I know nothing else but where I need to go .
I never grew to fear the damp . The way it moved in on our home felt like a blessing to me , saving us from unforgiving days of sun that dried out the garden and shone down until the skin beneath the part in my hair was red and crusted . I spent days on end belly down on the porch , watching newts dart their way between the decking posts , counting dragonflies . Whenever it rained , I ’ d run out to my spot and lie face up to the sky , feeling myself get soaked through my clothes and to my skin . Thunder rolled through me from head to toe , setting the peach fuzz hair all over my sun-touched skin standing on end . Whenever lightning struck , I made a wish .