Anxiety Prose

Dopamine by Paris Jessie

I guess my dopamine is shot. What can I do? Before all that I am made of begins to rot. Tonight, I couldn’t care less about how long the water runs. Sorry, this is not eco-friendly. It is for the self-tonight. This is where I become something like a painter. Sit and imagine. Doing with a blank canvas. Here in this tub. Yet, I’m still making one with the sun, somehow. I try to feel this water scorch my toes…I’m still waiting. For it to hit, like if the sun were to be lit by its own insides. Something like revival. As if, it will trigger life. Now, am I living? At least for this hot steam, which maybe I am painting as the sun. Like, it is purging something. My body must get extra clean — I have three kinds of bath soap — they each are purposeful. So clean that droplets live abundantly upon my skin with no complaints. As a full moon occupying its own clear night sky. 


I would rather not put water to waste, but a bath wouldn’t have held the same space. I would be there resting in things (or trying,) you know, my eyes shower my face. I’m not interested in that. I’m not looking for a space that gives me right back all that I am melting off. I need to cleanse, so that which makes my bones hard and strong can just be. And no, it is not simply a mineral, not for this body. 


Then, I watch all these things race, race, race down a drain, well, who knows where they go…what they really run into. Not my problem. All I know is that they need to get off of me. If they are to go that far down and be that sucked away it should be an easy, no return, goodbye. As if, it is that simple. Later, I might just dance on the ceiling. Take that. 

Paris Jessie (she/her), is a black writer and creative based in Los Angeles. She is also an on-call set medic. Her passions include poetry, dance, and videography. Forthcoming is her debut poetry collection along with other works. You can keep up with her on Instagram @iamparisjessie