I beg off baths
Claiming my limbs too long
to fold themselves
Inside the tub
I site discomfort and joints like glass
The sad sick truth is, really,
My mother would run a bath
Hot enough to turn her pink
I, a small child, ear pressed to the door
With the thrum of running water
Singing in my ears
Beneath that sound, once soothing
Once pure
Once whole and bright and clean
I hear my mother sobbing
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About the Creator
Jordan Warren
University student || Poet || Adventurer || History buff || Bibliophile || LGBT
My writing deals mostly mental illness, LGBT themes, life as a student, life with chronic health issues and whatever else inspires me.
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