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Nighttime, Eleventh Hour

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Nighttime, eleventh hour.
Rain falls from the shower.
She tries to wash the world away.
But to her surprise, the faint smell will stay.

The scorching hot water is no match for the fire inside.
Behind the plastic shower curtain her torturing fears will hide.
She breathes in the steam like the oxygen she needs.
Cloudy the room seems, and on her memories her demons feed.

Her strawberry shampoo tries clean her uneasy mind.
And she takes the final rinse she realizes that it’s time.
She gets to mirror and wipes away the mist.
She can’t forget anything and she punches it with her fist.

The glass shatters and the pieces on the floor.
She holds a shard teasingly with her back on the door.
This shard is her paintbrush and her canvas her wrist.
Her lifeless face loosing color, she will be missed.




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