Sometimes I think scary things in the shower—
How it would feel to really hit someone,
or what if I dropped out of school?
You died and now I am forgetting
your voice.

Sometimes I don’t think
anything—I just stand,
letting water slide across my shoulders
course down my arms,
pool at the tips of my fingers
and fall.

I used to sing in the shower,
but one day I quit
and now my voice sounds foreign
so I keep it hushed.

I start to sway,
catching myself with a ****.
Swiftly consciousness comes
dripping back down my wet face.
My hands are wrinkled—
I’ve never hit anyone,
or stolen grandma’s ring.
I can’t get any cleaner.