during steaming showers, i decide
whether or not to **** myself, or touch myself
once last time (how many times?) to the thought of
his collarbones and never ending pride.
i like it hot, so my skin is pink like a baby’s ****
and raw so it screams and scathes over wounds
i had long forgotten.
i breathe in vapors thinking them as gas, wondering
how long it took for Plath,
for Sexton until they kissed their own eyelids.


i imagine his lips as he said i was a sweetheart, a doll,
i daydream of his fingers as they entered me with no
worry, two snakes, the venom explosive.

showers are a dangerous time,
i come out alive, with bile and dynamite shoved in my throat,
with my heart seeping through the tiles,
my sanity disappearing into the condensation