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Sep 14
The white light of my bathroom  
reaches down through the steam,
breaks yellow through the shower door.
I scrub my skin, try to scratch loose
all the sour, stinging memories inside,
hope the grime would disappear
in the porous mat under my feet.
The steam flows like a host of ghosts
into the vent fan-  leaves behind
only  the face of tomorrow
in my  mirror’s reflection.
Written by
Jonathan Moya  63/M/Chattanooga, TN
(63/M/Chattanooga, TN)   
139
   mikey preston
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