there is a look my mother wears
when she bears bad news,
like she is sorry to be speaking.
she reeked of sorrow and cheap *****;
her voice is ugly when its squeaking.
tears were flowing easy like good writing when she shut the door.
i took a bath to ruminate, and then i took a shower too,
i scrubbed and sobbed and scrubbed some more,
but nothing could clean me of you.