Drain

A Whisper is somewhere between thinking and saying, and when I think my words fall to the wayside in spoken rhyme. They collect in the manufactured disturbance of the dark; speaking out only coerces purple-knotted bruises in the clouds of stormy change. Like the drain below and the showerhead far, far above, the water coheres to corrupted skin. An everlasting desert of dry flesh, at the mercy of adhesive light. It sees everything hears everything sees my body coiled in pain, on the ground. Hears my cry racked in grief, if only to be heard by a god who only answers through prayers and who no one has ever seen.