It’s been years since we dated
and I still remember the mixing taste
of your lips and that sweet *****
The bristles of my toothbrush have been bended
and I can still feel the ravishing flood of your flavor.
And every day, I visit the bathroom
to cleanse myself of the memory you
etched in my mind. You see,
*sometimes, four baths are not enough
to erase the stench you left on my skin;
sometimes, emptying the perfume bottle
won’t make any difference.*
The fogged mirror is whispering
that my cheek is still wearing
that imprint of your chapped lips
that I don’t remember you gave to me.
The shower walls are molding
and so is the bath tub;
*Sometimes, I forget how we bruised
each other’s body by slamming the other
against the wall.
Sometimes, I forget how we turned
a mere bathroom into a house
full of living.*
The drain is clogged again by the hair
I cut every day, and the room will flood
with rusted blood coming from the pipes of my broken body.
I know, you hid the soap
somewhere around the corners of my eyelids;
somewhere where the rats escape.
This is not about giving two *****
for a “Please, come back.”
This is not about begging pities,
under dim corner lights—No!
This is about washing a dirt filled face,
an overused ragdoll, with tears.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
It’s been years since we dated
and I still remember the mixing taste
of your lips and that sweet *****
The bristles of my toothbrush have been bended
and I can still feel the ravishing flood of your flavor.
And every day, I visit the bathroom
to cleanse myself of the memory you
etched in my mind. You see,
*sometimes, four baths are not enough
to erase the stench you left on my skin;
sometimes, emptying the perfume bottle
won’t make any difference.*
The fogged mirror is whispering
that my cheek is still wearing
that imprint of your chapped lips
that I don’t remember you gave to me.
The shower walls are molding
and so is the bath tub;
*Sometimes, I forget how we bruised
each other’s body by slamming the other
against the wall.
Sometimes, I forget how we turned
a mere bathroom into a house
full of living.*
The drain is clogged again by the hair
I cut every day, and the room will flood
with rusted blood coming from the pipes of my broken body.
I know, you hid the soap
somewhere around the corners of my eyelids;
somewhere where the rats escape.
This is not about giving two *****
for a “Please, come back.”
This is not about begging pities,
under dim corner lights—No!
This is about washing a dirt filled face,
an overused ragdoll, with tears.
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