the story of a bath

the brush of my clothes i miss
amidst the bare of my body,
surrounded by cold tiles, colder air
that invades my personal space.
water begins its descent,
from the shower onto ice beneath and
the fall of the drops splash my face
as i stand aside, waiting
for the water to steam.
goosebumps mark my body;
unlike a temple, i’m not proud
of the spots, the skin, the hair
i see so clearly in the mirror;
nearly always melancholy
in this place, i stand outside
of my comfort zone
in the cold
shivering
until
my eyes
see the steam
rise into the air and
under the water i stand
to wash away my thoughts;
the hot water first strikes my skin
but later caresses gently,
i breathe in deeply and sigh
as the mirror fogs up and i only see
a blur that shows me mercy
from my own self; the water so hot
almost gets under my skin
to help my highly strung nerves,
unwind from within;
my toes curl, fingertips prune
signalling it’s time to leave,
to do more important things,
than drown in self pity,
and i emerge outside
with steam rising
from my body.

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2 thoughts on “the story of a bath

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