"washroom" poems
i’ve given up on days that begin in late afternoon,
skipped breakfast and lunch,
days that fade slowly and end with
****** cut-out holes in eyelids because
the second i close them and it all goes black,
every moment with you comes back
played on fast-forward, the memories moving so quickly
that both our faces are blurred
and it feels like everything i’ve ever felt for you
is overflowing the tub, filling the washroom with
suds that take forever to melt
i’ve given up on those days.
i’ve traded them for ones that begin with
sunrises instead of sunsets,
days that are spent falling forward
instead of trying to chase the past, and i don’t
look back and see something broken, or
something that was better off left unopened
i look back and see our bodies so close together
that you can’t tell where yours begins and mine ends,
i see my heart that grew twenty-three times its size,
i see you and me wrapped up in something that
i didn’t know existed outside of blurry 35 mm
and overdue and falling-apart library books
that sit on the nightstands of middle-aged women
who are bored with their lives
and i’m just so happy i got to love you at all.
but i’ve folded up all the days spent with you
and taped them in the messy pages of my journal
and now i’m running into the sun,
running away from every lie that’s trying to
wedge its way in between my ribs,
running in the opposite direction of words like "regret"
and any feeling that insists that none of it was worth it
because all of it was worth it.
every moment we were together pumps
through my veins, and it will always be there;
it will be there when we’ve both graduated,
when you move out west,
when you kiss your family goodnight,
when you sit in your backyard with tears
in your eyes because you’ve lived a life
you are proud of
it will be there when i finally make it to new york city,
when i kiss someone who isn’t you,
when i find the answers you inspired me to search for,
when i sit on my rooftop with tears on my cheeks
because i’ve lived a life fuller than i could’ve ever imagined
and you and i will live these lives apart,
we’ll move on and forget what it felt like
to wake up beside one another;
we’ll find what we’re looking for elsewhere
and we’ll understand why this all had to happen the way that it did
but what we had will always exist somewhere,
in rotting apples and old mail and unplayed mix CDs,
in mosaics that line the city streets, in sirens and
red and white flashing lights that shine through
your window while you are asleep
you and i were magic,
we always will be.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
OCD is not all about remembering the freckles on her cheeks or telling her I love you repetitively
OCD is waking up at 2 in the morning after you have spent hours trying to delude yourself into thinking that your hands are clean only to end up in your washroom trying to rub your skin off.
(all because a stranger touched me on the sidewalk a month ago)
OCD is being in an abusive relationship with yourself. Your logic won't let you give in, but like a desperate lover, your OCD won't let you go. So you keep swinging, tick tock, to and fro, like the broken clock in the store room you can't get yourself to throw out because it belonged to your nana.
OCD is not finally finding a peace of moment when he looks at you but it is biting your teeth into your lips trying to hold in the cringe when he carelessly wipes his greasy hands on the napkin. "Don't complain, don't complain" you mutter to yourself as you throw a hand sanitiser his way.
(please don't leave me)
OCD is rearranging the pictures frame on the shelf for the fifteenth time a day because last time your brother interrupted you and so you might as well start again. OCD is the worry in your mum's eyes as she invites the guests to show them your room while she keeps throwing you cautious glances as someone touches your books.
(I'm sorry, ma. I can't help it)
OCD is reading the same line again and again, a part of your brain asks you why since you got it right the first time. You don't know why, but you keep doing it just to be sure. Check the door if it's locked properly before sleeping. Once, twice, thrice till it's morning already and it's time to wake up.
(another sleepless night, God **** it)
OCD is all these fuzzy voices mixed around with the signals from your brain telling you that your life will fall apart, if, just for this once, you do anything different.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 3:34 AM UTC
Nobody chooses a bottle willingly. A pill or a loaded gun, in the end it's all the same.
We're waiting, still, hiding. In our holiest of places:
The kitchen and the office. A quiet sideways-slide into the last available stall in a casino washroom. The seat is still warm.
Teachers don't tell kids that drugs are bad. They told us that we were the evil ones for deep-throating a bottle of ***** every Friday.
They didn't know what we had to go home to.
Cancer sounded better than living past 20, and that's the thing that they'll never comprehend:
There's always a reason underneath overdose.
The only time a drug is bad is when you can't afford it, and you're sitting alone in a fetal position crying in need for a chemical bliss that you've caressed over and over; a blanket covering memories. Feelings. Emotions.
The only time a drug is bad is when you're too **** poor to grab anything better than a box of Benadryl and a dimebag of shake.
The only time a drug is bad is when you're anything but rich an' white and pretty, because then you're not addicted, you're having fun with the price of 1,000 a week at an all-inclusive rehab resort.
Drugs don't discriminate, but people sure as Hell do.
There's always a reason underneath overdose.
There's always a reason underneath.
There's always a reason.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
Darkness seeps between my fingertips
Even when my hands are clutched to my face as tightly as I can when I am crying alone
Fingernails digging into my skin
To remind myself that it is real
Sleeves pulled over my fingertips
So no one is forced to see the hideous things
Especially me
The way a murderer's mother shuts her son's old bedroom door at night when he has been jailed
To shut out the memories
Concealing what is unpleasant
At night I don't wear makeup
So when I wake up at 2AM to use the washroom
I keep the lights off
And fumble blindly through the black air to find the door handle
So I don't have to look at myself
It's getting worse everyday
A new kind of pain
And I don't understand
Why it hurts so much
But I think I'm going to stop telling people about it
I'm going to stop mentioning it no matter how much it hurts
I'm going to stop being self-deprecating in public
Because it just comes across vain, self-pitying, annoying, attention-seeking and fake
I want people to stop telling me I'm pretty
I want them to stop lying to me
Even if it just to spare my feelings
So I will stop putting them in situations
Where they must lie to me to be polite
I'm just going to be silent now
They already have to know how ugly I am on the outside
No one needs to know
What an ugly mind I have
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
I
Tomorrow waits in the dried plant bones
splintering balcony karma
next to the ****** galatic twilight.
Moon poems paralyzing yonder
one color chess matches on transcended leather
--thigh laughter buried alive in rubble
under fifteen cushions of red flesh.
Let's go wave our bottom banners undying
in the realm of lifetimes and its spontaneous chases.
Plethora inhales
from one-legged warlords under fragrant wash pillars
obstructing the pilgrimage
of wrapping my stranger
around a blade. The second blameless pantheon
of Christianity.
II
put down the flowers,
thought scars
from a thirsty delusion
that taste the industry instruction
deep in meditation spoons
that pierce the sides of students. Heaven rains/*angelic ************
on the obscure sail drifting towards the horizon
--a mad-religious shape
from the bottom banners undying
III
there isn't even the smallest incense
that the earth's door shortens,
an attempt in debt
to defame the impregnable summer
with washroom axes
on the grape's night before you and I snap.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
On the first day, he was pushed
robust in his stance, the other forced,
this boy down the spiral staircase
of the Catholic church, the school
had renovated, the Spring before
Isaac had begun his studies,
at the high school.
Ballet was his passion, Latin was the
language that so effortlessly, fluently
was spoken from his lips in class
as he smiled at his Professor, another
victory accomplished in academia
so proud were his parents, of their
blue eyed boy.
Jonah was the reject, the older brother
he had been kicked out of school,
not once, but twice, and was often
found with a joint, his unshaven face
wrapped around one of the girls,
from the all girls school that ran
alongside Isaacs all boys.
Issac was hurt, a further blow to his
stomach, rendered him broken
as a waterfall of tears ran down his
bruised and cut face, so ashamed
as other pupils laughed, staring, pointing
until the final bell rang as they fled from
the high ceilings and narrow corridors.
Wrapped in a ball, he waited for all
halls and students to clear, and as
he rolled over, picking himself up
he took to the washroom, knowing he
needed to be presentable for his mother
waiting for him at the school gate
brimming with pride, at her boys scholarship.
All his dreams, mystical and serene, Romeo and Juliet
fluid streams of poetry of Elliot, Poe, Hughes
and of course Wilde and those love letters of Beethoven
math, biology, all paled into insignificance
he was born a writer, a dancer, a drawer,
sketching and typing his heart to a page,
prose a future love would read.
Johan saw his mother's car pull up
as he raced and giggled with Saskia
leading her astray, he promised her all
the things those boys always did, and of course
not to break her sweet sixteen heart, unlike other boys
as his mother smoked another Camel, the two lovers
jumped into his truck, Johnny Cash blaring from speakers
laughing hysterically, the world at their feet.
By 4pm, Isaac was ready to leave school,
tentatively walking out the main door, down
concrete slabs as steps, no predators in sight
he couldn't hide the dark circles under his eyes
that formed as bruises, knowing he was fortunate
to have not been damaged further
by the haunting before last period.
Walking to the gates, he listened through
headphones; Tchaikovsky
his release
his home
his saving grace.
© Sia Jane
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
school ke pehle Din mile the, Rote Rote Sab aye the par tum has rahe the.
Usi baat se rote rote me chup hua tha aur wahi se dosti ka pehla chapter shuru hua.
Padhai ke chor Hum washroom Break ke bahane aadha lecture bunk Krte the.
Break me 15 ki sandwich aur 10 ka juice aur kaha koi kharche the.
7 bje se pehle agr barish hogi to scl nhi jaenge aur usi ki chutti Milte hi barish me jam ke nahaenge .
Result ke din kiska Kam ayega uspe shart lagti thi aur agr uska zada Aya to ye sochke bht phat ti thi.
Mere saamne shart harke Jeet ta hmesha tu hi Tha , kuch nhi pada yr bolke topper banta tu hi Tha... Jhuta saala!!.
Pehli baar kisi ldki ko dekhte dekhte tumne mujhe dekh Lia tha ,uske saamne usi ke Naam se chidane ka zimma tumne le Lia tha .
Teacher ne jab daat ke bahar hmko khara Kia Tha , class room se zada bhr hmne seekh Lia tha.
Aakhri baar jab aakhri din ham mile the kai wade hamne kr lie the.
Par tab shuru Hui zindagi ki asli class, alg school me admission no same class.....are Koi naa alg school Hai to Kya hua har week Milte rhenge par Sach btae dost aur kitna khud ko dhakte rhenge .
Pehle milke plan banate the ab Milne ka plan banta hai........in sab me kahi kho si gayi Hai hmari zindagi.
Kaha Hai yr Mera vo school Wala dost kaha Hai.......
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 5:40 AM UTC
Black & Yellow
– for Wiz Khalifa ✌
*“Stay high like I’m supposed to do, that crown
underneath them clouds, can’t get close to you.”*
On the first day, he was pushed.
Robust in stance, the other forced,
this boy down the marble stairs
of the Catholic church, the school
renovated the Summer before
Khalifa began his studies,
in junior high.
The ballet was his passion,
Latin was the language that so
fluently was spoken from
his lips. The Professor smiled,
another victory accomplished.
Khalifa’s mom was so proud of
her blue eyed boy.
Rapped in a ball, he waited
for all students & halls to clear.
Rolled over, picked himself up
took to the washroom, knowing
he needed to be presentable
for his mom stood at the school gate,
brimming with pride.
All of his dreams, mystical.
Don Quixote & The Nutcracker,
fluid streams of poetry;
Elliot, Poe, Wilde. The love
letters of Ludwig van Beethoven.
Born to dance all Principal roles,
a lovers’ prose.
By four, he was ready to
leave school. Tentatively walking,
no predators in sight, out
the main door. Leaving behind
a haunting first day. Listening to
Tchaikovsky; his release, his home,
his saving grace.
© Sia Jane
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
Pathetic life
Been used the entire life
Night and day
By old and young
Male or female
Servant to all
Even at the fanciest washroom
Seduced and Thrown away by all
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
I remember when I was at the concert.
I could feel the tsunami of the crowd
As the headliner started.
Nothing to hear but screaming and music.
Electricity shot through the veins of all,
Some intoxicated, some not
we all feel the same musical passion.
The time of excitement was now.
Pit after pit of swarms engulf the crowd.
******* in the unexpected but willing.
But to protect a friend,
I was a fortress against the mob.
Listening to the music, the lights flashed.
and from nowhere known,
A natural weapon struck my face.
Turning around, feeling no pain,
But assured of the severity
by the river of blood I unwillingly donated.
Into the washroom, I stumbled.
Blood mixing with the nectar of life.
Outside to the medic I casually waltzed.
Swollen eyes, nose, and disappointment.
Hearing the music from outside the hall,
my heart dropped, I blew the plans of fun.
But never fear, new friends are made.
The blood stops its own current,
and memories are established.
Stories to tell in the future.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
That feeling when you catch yourself in a washroom mirror and think, "God you look terrible."
That feeling when your physical nails break at clawing your mind out of a creeping depression. Like shackles tied to the weight of your mistakes pulling you back to _that_ place.
That feeling when you can't process what's fair and unfair. Where you went wrong and why you're not better to begin with.
That feeling when you're at a constant battle of worth, convincing yourself to exist. When old vices and bad memories hit you with a bone chilling gust.
That feeling when you can't fake it hard enough to hide the damage. Ripped to shreds, sewing them in whatever pattern to just get over it.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Ink, ink, ink,
It was the same ink which wrote those notes, we passed in class,
I’d read them, my hair a curtain round my face,
Hiding the feelings my face would betray.
Ink, ink, ink,
It was the same ink which wrote those love letters stashed carefully under a comer of my bed.
You’d read them, a light smile playing on your lips, in your eyes I’d see my words and
I’d fall in love with you all over again.
Ink, ink, ink,
It was the same ink that wrote those poems in my notebook,
The ones you’d pretend you couldn’t see.
I’d read them again and again,
And each time I’d find a sadder meaning behind each line.
And you have to believe me I’d never do all of this just for attention.
Ink, ink, ink,
It was the same ink that wrote those dreadful, melancholy lines you’d hear people talking about in the hallways.
I’d sit in a corner of the washroom sobbing till I couldn’t breathe,
Then wash my face, erasing all the evidence off my face that my eyes couldn’t hide.
They’d look at me and ignore my pain, cuz u know people they’d rather believe the lies than hear the truth.
Ink, ink, ink,
And finally it was the same ink that wrote that suicide note I kept on the rack. I read it one last time before finally walking away, slipping and drowning into the water.
But this time I didn’t try to fight back.
I SANK, I SURRENDERED, I SLEPT.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
Cockroaches, I can understand that
if you had our ears, you would
run at the screams of my little sister,
who screams like she had seen a monster
crawling on the walls of the washroom
when instead she had just seen you
strolling in the late evening
basking the glory of tubelight.
But me, I come from peace,
I’m not disgusted by your existence.
I do not get flabbergasted by your
occasional flying skills. Infact I,
say hi to you when I come to brush.
But you, you go haywire in fear.
Do you sweat? Is there something
equivalent to that, that you do?
You needn’t, I wish I could talk
and tell you that I love you, and that
I do not want to **** you.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
sometimes the noise got too much; i’d hear everything: the people in and out of the washroom, the kitchen fan downstairs, my brother and his friends yelling outside. i’d turn my music up, hoping the neighbours didn’t mind. when i left, the relief was almost more profound than i could handle.
it can’t be static
i’ll return; the leaves will fall
clocks can turn back time
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 2:21 PM UTC
In the end it was a case of
'I've probably got to piss;'
moving off in all directions
seeking the hallow holy spill
-drip of sweet relief. the
washroom is the last place you
are guaranteed solitude like a
lil tyke meditation chamber the
Brahman made sure could not be
tainted with distraction or 'I'd
rather not's,'and it's not that
you'd rather, because kind waits
and last moments go by like this.
but you can safely and suavely
admit to yourself as you lie awake
in bed that you really probably have
to **** it's your body speaking in
liquid laughter.
it's a part of your language the
rain-clouds have crafted.
it is one relationship that has
eternally lasted.
Oh, holy human waste!
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
The English language is my home
articulation,
my forte.
So when I ask: "Where is the smoker's section?"
I expect to hear a response in English.
Instead I must stand
ashamed
beneath a giant no smoking sign
in the a cubicle
of the women's washroom.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Jimmy opened his suitcase in the room
at Lourdes and said Oh no there’s molasses
all over the clothes and shoes and I’ve got
a whole week here and he sat down in a chair
his head in his hands saying What have I done?
What am I going to do for clothes now? you
went over and looked in and sure enough
the molasses were over his clothes and shoes.
What am I going to do? he said and you said
Leave it to me Jim I'll sort it and you went through
the clothes taking out the items untouched
by the molasses and set them aside on the bed
and then carried the suitcase of black sticky items
Into the washroom and there one by one you carefully
washed them through with soap and water until
they were clean and smelt of soap and fresh air
and all the while 94 year old Jim sat in a chair
watching with his eyes watery and jaw hung loose
seeing the black water run down the wide plughole
and once it was done you wrung the clothes out
like your mother used to do when you were a kid
and hung them out on the balcony on the small
clothesline and placed the washed out black shoes
by the outside wall to dry out in the hot afternoon
sun and Jimmy came over and stood on the balcony
with one hand on the rail and the other on his stick
looking over at the Pyrenees in the distance and he
said That was real good of you. I owe you big time
and you stood next to him feeling the hot afternoon
sun on your face and arms and felt good and you
said You owe me nothing Jim I just did what some
good guy would and his watery eyes swept over you
matching the French sky’s watery afternoon blue.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
"I would give anything
To see you smile again."
Said my reflection in the mirror.
So would i,
my friend,
So would i.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
As he goes to the washroom I sit and stare at my palms
I don’t know what to do
I almost pull out my phone to distract me from myself
Stop
I enjoy the silence
I allow the clinking of glass and chatter of folk to calm my restless heart
Something irritating
A laugh
Exploits of the night prior
My temperature rises
I try and drown out the boisterous banter with my thoughts
How can people speak of such trivial things
Why am I plagued with pondering the contradictory nature of everything?
My mind
Wandering to those thoughts I suppressed long ago
Marinating in dreams unfulfilled and forgotten
He returns
I sigh and smile
I wish I could have thought a little longer
He talks
I laugh
My desperate soul carries on
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 1:10 AM UTC
*** Julia sways in the same Winter, losing an up hill battle of deep seated Calvinistic virtues and the excitation of **********
@@@ Julia goes on weekend holiday with her parents in hopes of losing her virginity in some square of Savannah.
@@@ Julia packs a bible, hoping to burn it in a symbolic rite of passage.
@@@ Julia packs a doll, hoping to drop it from a rocky bluff, post de flowerization, a highly political and artistic statement.
@@@ Julia packs the lucky strike cigarettes she took from the family gardener years ago, saved for her first post coitus cigarette.
@@@ Julia fiddles with a razor in her parents washroom. Breaking a piece and tucking it in her fingernail, as she read once that prostitutes do.
&&& Julia plans to draw blood in her ****** the man or men severing herself from the responsibility of a ***** & she severing her skin as tribute to a new brokenness.
@@@ Julia fantasizes her flower's loss to be on a rich man's bed with one or two plainly handsome sons of a rich man.
@@@ Julia desires the experience to be ****** seething with heat and violence.
@@@ Julia prays for this chaos, to shed her modest and humble skin, to become a quiet ***** in this painful flash of light.
@@@
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
*Standing like a fried potato
Turning black spitting out smoke
By the red flaming words of fire
No spatula to take me out
From the evil pan of teacher
Taken by the chief of hands
Thrown out into the garbage
Making me a burnt potato
Way to the washroom of sink
Back to her class of stove
With a clean nefarious smile*
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
"I'm going to the washroom. If we lose each other let's meet at the bookstore, by the entrance. I'll be right back." I said.
But when I came out of the washroom, they were gone. And suddenly, reality hit.
*I am alone surrounded by people
In a mall
Blaring christmas music
Where did they go
I lost them
What if I never see them again
What if someone among all of these people has a gun and we all die before we can hug each other goodbye
I'm alone I'm so alone I'm so alone
I'm ******* alone
I can't breathe.*
It was like being underwater with my eyes open
Swimming in a sea full of unfamiliar faces
And blaring christmas music
And the sound of my pounding heart
And failing lungs
Screaming at me
YOU ARE ALONE YOU ARE ALIVE AND YOU ARE ALONE AND THAT IS THE TRUTH WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT.
So I bought a coffee because I choose to believe caffeine calms me down
And then I stepped outside
And cried and cried and cried and cried
I cried for the fragility of life hit me harder than it ever has
How fleeting it is
How terribly tragic it is that all of us love each other so much
And yet we will all die alone.
I cried for how close I felt to death at that moment
I cried for my inability to pinpoint exactly what had made me so upset
I cried because I felt like a lost little 5-year old wondering why no one was holding her hand
I cried because I missed you so much especially at that moment
I cried because I realized how incredibly weak and ridiculous I was acting
I cried because I couldn't even make one lousy phone call to someone I love so they could calm me down
I cried because I felt paralyzed
I cried because the time it takes to say "I'll be right back" is enough time to lose someone
Forever
Once my lungs & heart finally came alive again, I went back inside that stupid mall
Full of stupid people shopping for their stupid christmas presents in sync with that stupid christmas music
And you were standing there, at our meeting spot with a smile on your face and
Relief and relief and relief and you said
"There you are! We thought we lost you!"
And so did I, I thought,
So did I.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
You walked home
from school
with Sutcliffe
(O’Brien was off
with dysentery
which Eddie thought
was a load of ****
along the New Kent Road
by the shop from which
you bought
a stamp album
and the silver looking
6 shooter gun
and holster
with the belt
with pretend bullets
all around
in little holders
and Eddie said
his big sister
was beginning to spend
too much time
in the washroom
getting herself
all geared up
for her boyfriend
and that his dad
banged on the door
wanting to get in
for his shave
( she’d used all
the hot water
her mother had boiled
in the copper
for the family bath
that night
and his sister
had bellowed back
I’ve got to look my best
I can’t go out
smelling
like a dead rat
and Eddie laughed
(his buck teeth showing)
and Dad told her
she’d feel his hand
across her backside
if she got
too mouthy with him
so she shut her noise
and came out
all dolled up you
her hair all piled high
her lipstick bright red
her tight skirt
and Dad said
if you think you’re going out
dressed like that
you can think again
but she did
and that was it
and Mum said to him
she's only young once
but he just shaved
and moaned
and I could hear him
muttering to himself
and so Eddie went on
(O’Brien would have
baited him about his sister
would have riled him bad
but he was away
and Eddie was glad)
and so you got
to the corner
of Deacon Way
where Sutcliffe lived
and so you walked
across the road
to Meadow Row
and he waved
and you watched
his blonde cropped hair
and black uniform
disappear from sight
and walked towards home
hands in pockets
satchel on your back
scuffed shoes
kicking stones
onto the bombsite
home to tea
of bread and jam
then out with Ingrid
on the balcony
looking down
over the ledge
at the people passing
or kids playing
making a din
until her father
called her
with his rough voice
and she went back in.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
He had stepped into the leaky washroom
Ceramic tile: floor, walls, and ceiling
Water ran, flowing like a clear mountaintop spring in morning
Her body was **** and lying there
Lifeless and beautiful
He was gazing down at her
Finger twirling his dark ponytail hair
He said aloud "the water is cold, it's as cold as glacier water"
It was forever running over his scuffed up, black wingtip shoes
And down her freckled face, as he was standing straddle her head
Through her elegant red hair
Over her small pale *******
And then down each side of her figure
Hugging the outsides of her legs
Then hugging the outside of her ankles and feet
The glacier water freely flowed on
It gave her body a complimentary glow
Reflecting the florescent light from the outside hall
He was standing there again pondering her death
Like many nights before this
He's standing there in the glacier water
Looking down at his beautiful wife
Remembering how cold the water was that December night
And how cold it has been ever since
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
Crying in the stall
Door shut, no one talks
Been in here long enough
Too long almost
Come out quietly
Like nothing's wrong
Fix my make up
Put on a brave face
Tell everyone that I'm ok
A bold faced lie
No one knows
I've hit rock bottom
Crying in a washroom stall
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC