How to Wash Away a Life

choose a shower

that looks like it was designed

by a committee of damp regrets

and municipal cruelty.

~

tiles the colour of old advice.

grout like a courtroom.

light like an interrogation

that forgot your name.

~

sit in the corner

like a wet apology.

knees to chest, spine folded,

a human parentheses.

~

turn the water on full.

not cleansing.

an audit.

a hostile, hissing spreadsheet

of consequences.

~

let it hit your shoulders

like the universe

finally found your address

and came to collect.

~

scrub at your skin

like skin is the culprit.

whisper the little lies,

the cheap prayers:

~

if i’m clean enough

i’ll be worth keeping.

if i’m clean enough

i’ll stop hearing myself.

~

watch the drain

do its quiet little miracle,

swallowing shampoo

and dignity

with the same professional calm.

~

the drain is so stable.

the drain has goals.

the drain is emotionally available.

the drain spirals beautifully.

~

you don't.

~

you bargain anyway,

because humans love rituals that fail.

it’s your favourite genre.

you call it “self care”

and charge yourselves money.

~

water removes makeup,

sweat,

the scent of last night’s genius.

water does not dissolve time.

it does not un-happen.

~

it cannot rinse out

the texts, the silences,

the years you spent

mistaking survival

for a personality.

~

keep up with the washing.

shine up the evidence.

polish the sentence.

make it just slick enough

to carry again.

.