an evening

i seek refuge from my thoughts,

my doubts,

my insecurities. 

there's something about, 

soap and suds,

with a wet sponge. 

the clattering of glass, 

against metal pots and pans. 

there's something about hot water, 

wearing gloves because if i don't,

my skin will crack,

and that makes me,

well,

not think. 

my mind does not wander,

nor does it contemplate, 

all i focus on is the task at hand. 

or in my hands for that matter. 

it numbs me to an extent. 

i don't enjoy chores. 

and most of the time i loath it. 

but for some reason,

when i don't want to feel,

or don't want to question,

i head into the kitchen,

blast the radio on,

and wash the dishes.