glass

byWillow Rain©

Seated on the edge of your tub, water pouring and splashing into the clean white porcelain, I touch my face rubbing across the rough mark on my chin and along my jaw. The rug won the balancing game last night.
One shoulder bears a similar swath.
It had just been red, but this morning it is textured with a scab as delicate as lace.

Steam flows up my bare back.
I hurt
My body aches.
Marks on my hip follow a curve, bruises that would fit your fingertips perfectly.
I spread my hand over them and remember the sound of your release.

I couldn’t take another round.
I pour in Epson salts, just a little and then a lot.
If the bell rings,
I’ll be glass.
I’ll take the fall.

Easing raw flesh into the hot water I hiss and sink low,
lower yet and then under.
My hands settle above the water in the chill morning air.
The backs of my fingers rest against the wall.
The ceiling distorts as I watch it through the water, blinking.
Fine bubbles slide across my lips, as tender as your kisses before I slept.

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