The flood

There is a chance when tasting the rain from above that it will taste just like water. The beginning of being wet from the endless voices, the anger of what someone else things they deserve. As they speak now as if we have never be separated, with their wants and needs, with the endless draw of a string around my waste hanging me from the tree of life, like a fruit. I am screaming at the beginning, because the beginning seems to have been knotted up with the rest of life, the beginning of who I was meant to become, a child, or an ant. a mother, or an individual. and I am stuck running inside a timeline stuck between two numbers, as I hit the two and the five over and over again. remembering a moment that was stolen, it had fallen through times, in the cracks in the floor, and now I rub my hands over the scars, I run my hands over the moment I saw the rip in another man's eyes, a rip in a car traveling straight, a folded up piece of cloth that is meant to be life, all condensed in squares. I wonder what the rain tastes like as I stand below it, the place I am sure one day to return to, the mothers and fathers who are all hesitantly waiting like children on the edge of a square, on the beginning  again, drooling with words that are too hard to say. drooling and I am knotted up in their tongue. I am wishing I could pull myself up on their invisible tassels that are all around me, as they hit my skin softly as rain drops, and I sit remembering the rivers in the gutters.