when you washed your hands
you left grease marks in the soap again
and murky suds around the basin rim.
the splattered water drops on the vanity mirror
mark your tendency to turn the taps on hard and fast.
i never could understand your love for intense pressure.
now your wet towels decorate the bathroom floor,
next to scattered shampoo bottles,
the only signs of struggle.
the exhaust fan churns lazily
over your corpse enshrined in a tub of water and blood.
the shower curtain still clings to your naked flesh,
offering its final parasitic embrace.
crime scene
domestic horror story poem.
another shoe-box discovery.
who was i when i wrote this?