on wednesday evening... The water cascades into a less-than-sparkling tub. I add rose-scented bath salts to banish the scent of failure that clings to feet, the backs of my knees, the undersides of my breasts, a top note of guilty compost that follows me everywhere. I read another bard‘s book of poems, imbibe a glass of spirits, breathe in the moist aromas of sunset roses and flesh as my mind is assaulted by the sound of a hundred voices telling me to go away... until I rise from the bath, and my dream swirls down the drain, leaving me encircled with a ring of every defeat I tried to drown.
Marie Lecrivain 35