waiting for the days thoughtless, tactless ideologies to drain
along with my dead hairs & that which i shave,
starving for an extra minute under water,
to physically rinse the film that outside
has left upon my skin.
drowning in the street filled with heavy heads, hearts and bad,
bodies that brawl, contend, & speak with discretion
I am only at home, under the shower head
where warmth is a lover and everything just appears
prettier
for only, about, fifteen minutes.
the razor-blade-way is far too cliche so I towel dry,
usually.
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