'Big black bugs bleed black blood.' One of the thoughts that flitted through my head all too fast as I stood there. I turned the knob and the water that poured over my thin, strange frame grew hot. It felt good, relaxed the muscles that had tightened around me like a Chinese finger trap. I rubbed at my wrist, faded black ink washing off with ease. I tried to remember what I had written onto my skin, but the memories had washed away with the dulled words. Big black bugs bleed black blood. A tongue twister that always confused me. I stood there for a while, catching the thoughts and questions that were flying through my chaotic mind and seeing what they meant. What time is it? When is lunch? Did I remember breakfast today? What was my homework? What am I doing? Was shampoo in my hair or did I forget? Keeping my memory was like pouring the hot water out from finished noodles. Some noodles slipped from the pot and escaped down the drain, as does my memory, as does the ink on my arms that reminds me of tasks at hand. Big black bugs bleed black blood.
