You are a Washing Machine

You probably put fresh paint in your pockets each morning because everything you touch is in color. You are happy like those Green Sundays you sometimes make and as unpredictable as chain lightning refracted off a clear glass marble. With one blast you broke all my mirrors but I am very clever and have put them back together with black mud and now I get to look more contorted than ever. So now that I see me in washed out lighting fractures I have been able to realize that love must always lead to hatred of something. What if that something is me? I think I know the answer. See how it shines dull and shadowed, like a cumulonimbus cloud or like black mud? Because your love is like beautifully distressing Communism where everyone gets one tablespoon. I’ve tried to sneaking more but the words and jokes always come out as garble once I realize how silly I am. Then I am revealed as a snail without my shell always having a constant slimy reminder of everywhere I have been. But knowing what you have lost never helps you get found. I will ask you to help me find, and here is my start: How deep are you? Because I’ve been wading for an awfully long time. Waiting for you to pull me down to where my feet can’t touch the bottom anymore. It would be dreadfully lovely to drown.