Wash
My hair is matted and snarled with innuendo;
that first shower afterward had me pushing and pulling
to get the tingle of my scalp gone, I needed to move
my hands down my body, I needed to untangle
myself from so much disuse and disillusionment.

You can tell my age by the sunken shape of my eyes,
by the dark circles, by my scowl. You can see me
mirrored in the water pooling at my ankles, the bathtub
semi-clean, the curtain torn, the skylight like a peeping
tom, wallowing in hungry gasps at me, a winter
devoid of a good storm, save the internal struggle
to continue to get out of bed.