The Hanging TV

The bathing continues- this is a short scene I just cooked up.

[A girl lays in a bathtub. The bathtub is antique with golden claws. She is on the verge of a mental break down and speaks to no one in particular.]

I've read the Bible and tasted fresh mango but I'm uninspired. I've scrubbed myself with sea salts and loofah sponges and I've combed my hair but I'm unclean. I've stretched my legs and polished the windows and kissed his lips but I'm loveless. I used to think I could improve. I made gravity bongs and hollowed out encyclopedias, saving the facts for a rainy day. I lay in cotton sheets, just thinking for days, until I couldn't stand my own smell, until the last drop of water had escaped down the pipes. I enjoy myself in this bathtub but I'm rotting from the inside out. I'm hoping this here tub will catch my insides. Porcelain is durable, right? It's clean. I could be clean. I think I could be clean. No. I take that back. I've done everything. I've gone to yoga and given up dessert. I've held babies and fed the masses. I used to think I could be a martyr. I thought I could be a queen with curling hair and a heart dripping gold. I saw men falling before my feet, tasting the dry dust as they surrendered to inevitable passions. I was going to be something. Now, I'm not so sure.

Fuck it. I'll be a queen. I'll cut my own grass and grow vegetables, mindless of the world outside. I'll rot in a greenhouse of my own design as twilight falls. I'll give up books and art and television. No, not television. I'll hang a TV from a glass ceiling and watch the flickering blue light. I'll watch it from down below. I don't need his dusty kiss or a way out. I just need this here porcelain.