Mundane

I have been too much myself

a corporeal heaviness

slipping into lukewarm water

painted with fragrance and powder

that makes me think only of TV smiles

and slave children

huddled in deep mines.

This is my luxury cave

my luxury loneliness

that offers nothing more 

than the press of my reddened skin

slick walls

and an audience of plastic.

Before, drinks had mixed

the scalding water

into potions from my childhood-

an echoing of every human bather

reaching out

and I reached back

connected and delicious

in lavendar and oils

and foam on smooth skin

and I wasn't myself-

I was everyone's daughter.

I was everywhen and everywhere.

But, now

I've abandoned the poison

and the magic has abandoned me.

I sit and read the backs of shampoo bottles-

No More Tears.

Because nothing is worth crying about anyways.