Generic

Discourteous 
 
The worst part about Saturday was not the stomach ache 
that tugged me awake, nor the angry bathwater 
that shouted for me to get out. 
It wasn't the dripping faucet 
or its annoying, shadowy echo through the water. 
The line of empty shampoo bottles 
that sat gaping was more than unnerving. 
And the cut upon my cheek from shaving 
pulled a red thread effortlessly in an attempt to unravel me. 
The worst part about Saturday was my open invitation to tears, 
and how they never got back to me.