Writing on Toilet Paper

I am thinking about bees
and how very red rooms are
when my wrists go weak in the shower.

I hum Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah
and wish I had drunken more water this morning.
My mother says I show signs of genius.

Me and my sister would record ourselves
for preservation, posterity, proof.
We are really like that inside. All red
and rainy, round and deep with blue
and doors and doors and doors.

The dog swims in the pool
and we all smell like chlorine.
Genius. Perhaps that’s why I write
on a roll of toilet paper,
perhaps that’s why my brain
is too fast, won’t translate.
Perhaps that’s why I think
in aural sensations. Never
people.