13 Jan Water Pressure, By Sapphyre Smith
you turn your head in the shower
curve your neck, just so
and let the water run down your cheek like a hand cupping your face
a palm thrumming with the heartbeat of summer rain.
this is the part where you forget
float on steam and the promise of a train back home
to mom’s tired smiles and dad’s bone-crushing hugs
to a bed that knows the shape of your body
and footsteps you recognize before the knock on your bedroom door
two months.
it’s warm and soft, and vapor curls lightly around you
crowning your hair with misty feathers
you let rivulets rock you into a hazy standing sleep
and dream of cooking in a kitchen that knows your old patterns
a chug, a switch, the pressure changes –
and now you’re standing in cold condensation
icy fingers slide through your scalp, shock the breath from your lungs
you let the frigid radiation crystallize your blood,
let it drive your two months lifeboat to an icy grave
because now not even water wants to hold you
and there is no one here to ask you if you need help to change the pressure.
it pushes you away but you stay
because the cold brings out the blue in your veins, the pebbles in your skin
it holds, even as it shoves, and you tell yourself
it’s better than nothing.