Close the bathroom door behind me
and fall over onto the stool;
your words stream in continually,
line by line,
Into the same places we've been before.
But I wait just a moment.
It hurts to read, but
it doesn't hurt to give you time.
But if it's time you want,
and it's all you want,
then I could never give enough.
Prop the screen onto a rack,
flashing your words back at me.
Wonder why you find me so...
I really can't understand.
Turn on the shower and let it wash over me,
a lousy facsimile of the rain
that I tried so hard to avoid today.
My left eye feels sore,
and I suddenly remember
your tender hands uncovering a swollen tear duct.
The lines, the words, they don't stop coming
and it's all about the time, the time, the time.
Why do you write like you're running out of time?
If you feel you are,
but I don't,
does that mean I don't want you enough?
I black the screen and contemplate
as I lather myself clean of any
painful dirt that lingers and stains.
Because it's never me
that you really smell,
but the shampoo I clean out my hair with.
I stop and think - or, not at all;
it's really not worth it, I feel.
Which is strange, because I feel
nothing at all.
Well, maybe except
for my eye, and the tear duct swollen shut.
I don't love you enough,
I don't deserve your love,
and I never truly will.
Even so, why
do you still persist
in trying to see this fever dream through?
I'm not worth it all,
the pain, the suffering, the rage.
I'll never make it to old age.
And when I'm high
9000 feet above the clouds,
You'd know it was pointless anyways.
But I still love you,
Lots and lots and lots and lots and
Image credits to SouSouWorks.