Poem: The Flowers Smell of Thorns (possible tw)

I push my face

Under the stream

It burns

Perfect

Steam

Fogs up

My brain

And dampens the crackle

Of firing synapses

My thoughts

S l o w

They wade around me

Stacking up in drifts

Sloppily slamming into me

Almost drunkenly

They pester me

But Quieter Than before

The pain

That boils in my veins

Rips through me

Like static

Pricking my skin

Until the shell tears open

And all the foam beads

Spill out

Onto the concrete

Into the landfill

Wasted

I breathe in

Citrus

I'm still here

Surrounded

By a cacophony of slogans

And scents

Yet alone

Behind a locked door

I wonder

If they can hear

the stitches popping

From the other side

As the mask unravels

Before me

Do I like what I see?

I hold my fingers under the faucet

Grounding

I need to feel something

Something other than a girl

Trapped

In a burning building

But only able to polish the staircase

Winding

D

O

W

N

D

O

W

N

D

O

W

N

I'm falling

No

Flailing

No

Feeling

The water on my skin

The blood in my veins

The breathe against my lips

I rub the skin

Raw

Clean

I rub the blade

Raw

Clean

I stand over the bathroom sink

The decorative carvings in the wall

Cackle at me

The drain bubbles

And the floral soaps

Whisper

A language only I

Understand

The words harsh

Strong and pungent

But eventually toxic

I stand there

Until the water runs cold

And red.