In the tub

The swirling soap draws designs in the water over my scarred knees
They looks like badly used shillelaghs
Maybe I’m a disease or
maybe I’ve something to displease
Her, He, They, My Maker

And begging
can’t You stop
Begging for any sort of respite
from the constant noise of
The bells inside my head
Is useless and moot anyway
Because it’s gong to happen-

I hate it.
I hate to cry because it’s physically painful and
I downright despise being watched
While I tear myself apart
In a losing battle to hold it together

I know I can’t be the only one
Who has ever cried in the tub
Away from prying ears and
Sceptical eyes

So why do I feel so damned alone?



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