I lay in the bathtub soaking
wet with water running
around my silhouette. Shaking
as the washcloth smeared regrets
over my skin. The bubbles
give my sins a scent.
As I vent I leave the shower
running so my sobs
are the only thing drowning.
The constant tapping on my face
keeps me awake as I sink into
the various stews my mind creates.
Weights are lifted with pruning. Peeling
of dead skin keeps me from
reeling into depression. There is a harmonic
progression between the faucet and my face,
the scrubbing and my disgrace, the steam and
my own embrace.
I need this state. The decompression
from being bottled up, like a coke, with a smile
is worthwhile. It teaches me
that the expression of weakness
is key in the building of a better Timothy.