When You Leave Me

When you tell me that you don’t
want me, I can just feel the burning
water slapping me across the face.

The smell of dirt becoming mud
creeps to my nose throughout
the steam that is rising to the ceiling.

The hazy droplets from my hair
combine with the foggy tears
as they slip through the drain.

When you tell me that you don’t
need me, the combination of water
and of air pricks my skin.

I become ice and fire at the
exact same time, but the freezing
and burning are counter reactive.

The freshness of the conditioner
barely glides through my ruddy
haystack hair. I’m ready to get out.

When you tell me that you don’t
care, I reach for the warm brown
towel waiting to make me dry.

Smoothing over every area of my
bare skin, thinking nothing of you,
but instead of what to wear.

Squeezing into my jeans and my new
black pumps, it’s time to get filthy
and unclean so I can wash up again.