Shower Scene

Then

The white towel slips
Over the curtain rod
In the shower,
Onto to the wet floor.

I journey naked
Through the makeshift salon,
(The restroom smells like hair dye,
Black, two for $6.99).

Defeating ammonia,
I confront the mirror.
I have combat wounds:
Stains that mimick bruises
That mimick tattoos.

I try and quell their permanence,
But ultimately rub the bruises raw,
No, tattoos. My palette is stained.
Finally, there is you.

I cannot be made to feel the victim yet;
I have no genuine scar tissue.
I cannot be made to feel a pariah;
I took on these stains for you.

Sitting down. I cannot accept
Your explanation, That I felt too much
Too fast. That I did too much but
Too little too late.
No, don't leave;
Wait.



Wait.


Wait.

Months later

I am standing
In the corner
Trying to avoid the wrinkles
That come from showers that last

Too long. The stain is gone,
But I can still see it.
The ink from the tattoo
Is now invisible, but the scar
Tissue remains.

I have just dyed my hair,
Roots had conquered tips.
It was a war I did not need;
Either way I lose.

The beige towel is becoming
Part of the water cycle.
I am poisoned by the aroma of ammonia.
If only now were months ago,
You would be a buffer,
An antidote.
Potpourri.

There is now no question
As to the identity of the black mark
On my temples:
Bruise.
My blood is stagnant.
My thoughts are stagnant now.
I have been poisoned.

Somewhere inbetween

A kitten escapes
Unnoticed
Out of a door
Into a carless street.