I turn on the shower and walk inside the tub.
The water feels like a baptism.
As I cleanse myself of the rusted blood
That died in old syringes.
This honesty in my poetry has costed me everything.
For poetry is my life.
This abrasive behavior
Has left me with one conversation,
Pen on paper.
And if a person thinks
Me, Myself, and I
Try living with it.
Try using it to make something of yourself.
“Be happy.” They say. “So many other people have it worse than you.”
I am happy that I have the luxury of indoor plumbing.
That way my cheeks wrinkle from tap water
Instead of salt.
“Asshole. So many other people have it worse than you.”
It’s enough to confess.
The other day I vomited blood.
I know I should get it checked out.
But the yellow and red blended with happy tap water
Reminded me of Renoir.
In the end,
People will call it