I find that when
I'm covered in soap,
my mind wonders the most.

.   .   .   .

Racing down my face
is a streak of blood,
a betrayal of my body,
it longs to feel air
because it's jealous of my skin.

.   .   .   .

He hands me a cigarette,
a gesture of friendship
which I respectfully decline
because time can heal wounds,
but it takes more than
a few seconds of silence
to rekindle a friendship.

.   .   .   .

The wind clings
the blood to my face
a reminder of your betrayal
and I wish it would go away
but It can't, can it?

.   .   .   .

And the soap washes the
red off my face, down the drain
shaping my aspirations of flying away.