The Trains Tears

Squeak.
The shower knobs
Are a bit rusty.

But.
Whatever,

I shrug it off my tightly coiled shoulders,
As the water comes.
A bit of a trickle at first
But it gathers more force
More anger.
More steam.
Like that,
Damned
Stupid little blue engine.
"I think I can, I think I can"
The water seems to chug and sing along.

Think you can what?
Lug tens of train cars
Filled to the brims with demanding people.
Lug them all up a cynical predetermined path
That wasnt even predetermined by you?

Whatever.

And then
I step into the broiling, burning heaven.
And I look up to the shower head
and see the idividual sprouts of water
all clamoring to beat at my flawed flesh,
Yet this beating leaves no black and blue marks
(that I'm used to)
For its a good beating,
A soothing beating,
Like gentle fingers
Caressing my spine
and ribs
and pained shoulder blades.
And it strokes
My long curly hair,
Like a harpist would
Lovingly
Strum at his instrument.

And when the knobs are squeaked

and (almost) brutally twisted back off
I step into a greying towel
and peer into the foggy mirror
and see the remaining droplets of water,
Caught in my curls,
Trailing off.
Intricately
Sliding down.
Crying,
For me.

Author's Note

all reviews and comments are welcome and greatly appreciated! thank you!