Mud Bath

By: Max Migdail

Sometimes I don’t feel like myself.

And the pounding won’t stop after

Days and days

And days.

So I remove it all; the breath,

The food, the life.

Till all I’m left with is the pounding

And my skeleton,

And still I’m not me.

So I sit

And wait,

For however long it takes,

Until, I realize I don’t remember what “I” feel like anymore.


So I’m left floundering

On the banks of my own consciousness.

Braying for someone out there to find me.


My nails grow long and

The dirt accumulates

Beneath them;

It’s a mud bath: cool and relaxing.

I let myself sink in and I

Breathe deeper than ever.

I stop thrashing and let the thick water-that’s-not-quite-water rush down my throat and sate my


Dense, chunky, mealy, and curdled it goes down far smoother that it has any right to;

Until it’s coated me, inside and out, none of me untouched.


And I stay there, till either I recall that I can’t breathe anymore,

Or someone finds me,

Or someone joins me,

And there isn’t enough oxygen

For two.


And I’m still sitting, waiting, and yet, nothing.

So eventually I get up.

I walk away,

Trailing mud into my home.