SHOWERS

The edge of the bathtub
Wrapped in cotton security

Shivering
but not from the cold

The feeling of my pulse
in my throat
Closing in
On my trachea
My own body
Aiming for the jugular

Is it self-sabotage
If it’s meant
As an act of mercy
Not malice?

Perched on the edge of the bathtub
Cotton coverings now damp and chilled
Water droplets no longer dripping
But dried into my skin
Sucked up by my pores

That hungry desert in my core
Drinking in as much as possible
Until my bloated body turns blue
I’m rotting from the inside out