White Porcelain Tub

White Porcelain Tub

With the bathwater drawn, and the steam thick
as cottoned breath, I submerge and let myself stew.
I am sitting in the grit of a day lost to
futile pondering and an upset stomach.
I am sitting in the dead cells of a beautiful girl
who has peeled off and floats aimlessly.
I am steeping in the tea that is me.

I see the hair on my left thigh that I missed
with the pink razor which is blemished with
rust spots. I can nearly feel the rising
sting of grazed skin and angry blood as I
dismiss the notion of perfecting the shave.
No one will see the peach-like floss, nor will
any hand stroke the skin. By leaving the
seaweed filaments to sway with the currents
I remind myself that I’m not someone who needs
to pay attention to detail. I can get away with
errant hairs. I can get away with holey underwear.

I think about lighting the candles to my right, then
go back to staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling.
Candlelight when naked is practiced by women who
have purply-blue auras, the taut-bodied cat-eyed
sirens who bathe in their own milk. They lap up
wine from crystal stemware that waits on the
tubside tiles, but I’ve no wine to drink.
The water is tepid, the steam is gone, and I
don’t have the fire to spark the wick.

My whine is underwater.

I hold my Plath up high so as not to wrinkle her corners.
She has already suffered enough. I try to read her words
and let them wash over me, but I’m distracted by the
ploink, ploink, ploink of the dripping open-mouthed faucet;
like pebbles dropped into a still water stream.
I look down to see what sort of deterioration
has begun on the lily white palace that is me,
taking in a breath with one eye closed.
The murky soap waters have mercifully obscured
the foundation, and I exhale in mixed relief.

I want to think that I’m feeling better. I am
validating hydrotherapy and the benefits of
breathing vanilla and mint. The exaggerated
thumps and bumps of my body on porcelain
make me more aware of my ability to think.
I’ve stopped treading water long enough to
sit in it and simmer. It’s just me and the unlit
candles.

I’m unable to rest easy. The words before me
seem like cryptic code and the weight of the paper
is too much for my withered arms. I think about
the time, how much I’ve lost in here. Faces of
slighted lovers or long dead kin rise from the mist
to haunt me. All my wrongs breathe better when
immersed in perfumed water. I begin to wonder if
it’s unwise to sit in my own filth, seethe in my soup.

The cool wakes me up as I search for a towel.
My skin is blotched with raspberry and cream,
heat bruises that will fade. I am breathing
deep and full, feeling like I’ve freed myself
from a watery grave. I pat my face dry, followed
by my arms and downy legs.

I’m awake and alive. The air seems cleaner.
As I slip on my red robe, the one with frays and pilling
pockets, I marvel at the change in me. I feel more
aware of what I’m lacking, yet, am more open
to accepting it. I watch myself go down the drain
and feel too weak and drunk to care. The bath has
worked a magic that even I don’t understand.

I fall asleep wishing I understood the luxury.