pittapittapittapittapittapittapittapittapittapittapittapitta
the water thunders down like rain but directed at your body
and your body alone
in the dark and nothing seems to exist
outside of this small curtained room and its thumping spray.
the only room in the house that’s fully dark
so private you can hide from even your own body
(except for a quick swipe of a washcloth but then that’s done)
see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but the water in the dark
and you can almost feel the dark

but just like the
sunglasses in the kitchen and the
torn-up-pieced-together shirts and the
sarcasm and the
chafing feeling of your assigned gender and the
million little ways you’d be different if you could
He says no. shower upstairs
don’t turn the lights off
tell me what you think but
don’t think anything i can’t understand
you’re a beautiful young woman
be the little girl i love
don’t change don’t leave don’t shower in the dark don’t make me
worry.

pittapittapittapittapittapittapittapittapittapittapitt­apitta
the water thundered down and the dark liquified
your skin until you could barely feel
where it ended and you began.
turning on the light when you get out, it’s a harsher transition than you’d like
but for now all you can do is get through.