When you bathe,
remember
to wash it all off:
the hurt that gathers
under grimy fingernails,
the anger you folded
and tucked behind your ear,
the unsmiled smiles
hid beneath your fingers.
Let the water
burn your skin
raw, peel back
every lie you told
today, and every
sigh you didn't let
escape your mouth.
Don't be so gentle
with yourself. You
have survived worse.
Scrub every face
you put on
today. Every simile
you wrote and placed
into your hollows,
every word you used
to call yourself.
Remember
to tie the scent
of water
around your wrists,
and name it
home.
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