Fickle cunt theater -- now with interactive water element!

 
Scalding water slashes  
down my vertebrae,  
the same path  
your lips  
used  
when  
I  
needed  
you.
 
My arms are  
on my knees  
and I hide my  
head while  
rust-colored  
waves stream from  
my hair down my shins,  
into the open drain to be  
washed away.  
 
But the shit on my hands?
that shit
won’t come off.  
maybe ever,  
but at least my hair  
will be pretty.
 
My back hitches,  
and regret follows the trail of grime  
leeching from my skin.  
 
My grand reason  
was because you become  
what you love,  
and I had a soft spot  
for monsters who kiss  
you like you’re air  
while they rip a rusted  
knife through your  
sternum.  
 
So I kissed you  
like you were air.  
I told you I had a knife.  
(i told you)
 
You fucking trusted me  
to not use it…  
(why? why did you trust me?  
god, why did you stand there  
with your chest out, why?)
 
and now, the  
crack of your sternum  
is fermented in my ears,  
feel of your hope  
dribbles down my neck,  
and the taste of your kindness  
is chapped to the bottoms  
of my feet,  
like shit I walked through  
and never scraped off.  
 
The detritus sloughing off my body  
clogs the drain  
and the tub fills with  
a me-muck that I cringe into.  
 
My maroon-stained hands  
find my hair and pull, hard,  
as my eyes squinch shut.  
 
Maybe there’s anguish  
somewhere in the theater of it all,  
maybe there’s anguish  
for being so fucking  
wrong all the damn time;
 
but if there are any sounds  
of anguish,  
they’re muffled in the  
plink
of the shower water  
hitting the scummed-over pond  
that I sit in.  
 
if there was a sound of sorrow  
it was lost
 
lost  
the way I was
when your lips  
tracked their way  
down my vertebrae,  
like a drop of  
spring water.
 
The clarity of  
your patience  
sounds like  
new rain,  
the heave of  
my guilt sounds  
like shrapnel;  
and they don’t sound  
anything alike.  
 
so I pull the plug.
(noI'msosorrygodI'msorryno...)
 
and you know,  
it's sort of strange,  
that the sound of it all  
draining away  
 
sounds like  
someone  
thinly keening  
into  
closed  
hands