What happens when you shower in the dark?
you can't tell the environment around you, only
the soap laddering on your skin, and the streetlight
peering into the scene.

you don't get to see your arrogance accumulating from loneliness
like soap rinse-off left to dry on the ground.
the act of showering is to be clean
but you can't concretely see your arm
so how do you get to cleaning when you can't see?
how do you continue to hold on to hope when the feeling of
the need of warmth is pushing unto every square inch on you?
when you know the moment you turn the shower off
that coldness comes rushing in.
leaving your skin prickle displaying bumps
like that of a feather-plucked chicken readying for the feast.
Now you've got to resist, and hopefully they say he would flee.

Then you step in front of a mirror, remember its dark.
meaning there is nothing to see, but the fog is there to feel
bubbling in your face, churning your skin.
you know this darkness is not good for you,
but you embrace it like well a known friend
reeling in its obscurement, applying layers of cream.