So I wake up & think,
"Ohh, a message on Whatsapp,
I'll check that baby later,
for that nourish I will cater,
hmm outside it looks mild,
take your time Si, punctuality is the last reserve of the boring, said Oscar Wilde.
But you don't want to get the "where have you been" glare & the "I've been sat here for ages" stare."
So I gather my sleepy head with all my power,
get my work game on & hit the shower.
As I cleanse my skin layer by layer I ponder,
"hmm, have I got enough juice in my MP3 player to see me through on the 192?"
I scrub quickly in a ******* sigh,
"oh oh oh fuckkkkk! Si, you've got shower gel in your eye!"
All my thoughts of enough walking music to hurl me up the road are lost in my optic feeling like it's going to explode.
"It hurts! It hurts! ******* vanilla & raspberry,
is the cyclopitic pain really necessary?".
I now don't have time for thoughts of on time hurry
if I'm going blind or not is now my greatest worry.
The stupid anxieties vanish
in minutes of strife,
like they do in real life,
I don't think I'll care that I haven't budgeted for pre payday weekend beer if I get a call saying
you're not here,
& from what I know you disappear.
Not to dwell on what grief does loom,
you & me right now sail through the future gloom;
you're the best of the best
never stop,
I love you
I love you
I love you lots.
This soapy grip on my eye starts to ease,
anxious not
in the July breeze.

Ill give you a power
Someone's traveling a life's storm, a shower
Imagine this is your dealing your payment your dollar
Now imagine you are the one with an answer that doesn't cower
the answer is you're both of these and now is your hour

My only comfort as my tears fall with the water
Is the fact that I'm scrubbing away his hands,
His touch,
His lips,
His skin.
Washcloth against skin,
Red erupts from my pores,
But I don't care because
I need to get his scent off of me.
Just a whiff, and I gag,
My tears congealing in my throat.
Why me?
What did I do?
His hands were so soft,
But so strong, and
I could not escape.
Washcloth against skin,
I don't even know where to begin,
For he stripped me down to the very bone
And lay my soul and body naked.
His fault? Yes.
My fault? They'll think so.
Red flows down my legs because of
Washcloth against skin.
I drown myself in cherry blossom body wash,
The off brand kind.
My last thought before I stop the water is
"But I'm not even pretty."

the steam of the shower holds your face
like a pillow.

pushing out the smog, clutter in your head
billowing around you and thawing out
the raw thoughts that you try to freeze over.

the endless patter of hot rain that
cleanses, but also
hurts
in that it's one of the only
honest sounds you'll ever hear
(outside of love.)

the moment you step out into the humid, mediated
atmosphere of a cooling room
the water dripping off your arms,
your hair,
your face,
making you anew.

but as everyone does, you wipe the mirror clear
to see your face, and know that despite life,
it's still you.

it changes you, yet proves your you-ness more than anything else.