It is 23:24.

I stand
stone​ ​faced

I see
cold tiles at my rear
fully aware of this moment and those of the past

I look
dishevelled
vein throbbing u​nder the cool minty foam
hand slightly trembling

I recall
every word, said and unsaid
eve​ry harm, direct and indirect
yet the rushing wave of memories cause no angst.

No.
It is the razors' edge.

Three.
Sharp.
Whispered.
Words.

I. AM. SORRY.

Wiping down myself and then the cloudy basin
white cotton towel with spots of​ crimson​ aside
I am anew
I am clean shaven.

But I am not

Unmarked.