On My Shower FloorMature

You have been warned - it is kinda angsty and has mature themes.

Here, right now I sit,
On my shower floor.
It is where I have sat,
Many an hour before.

I heard your arguments,
Outside my bedroom door,
The kicking and screaming, crying and shouting,
And I could take no more.

I shoved my earphones in,
And turned the volume to ahundred.
Hoping that in time,
Your points would be redundant.

Oh... but they weren't,
And now here I sit.
And the tears keep flowing freely,
How much more of it?

You, father, burst in,
And led me to believe,
That whatever you were arguing about,
Was because of me.

So I took a scissors,
As you left through my bedroom door,
And put it to my skin,
Cutting deeper than before.

I watched the crimson run
And then I came here,
And I felt completely numb.
No anger, pain, or fear.

I could barely hear the water splashing,
As I turned the silver faucet,
To the point that it was scalding,
And I, unwavering, ducked under it.

But I could feel it building.
I wouldn't let it, which is rare.
I shut my eyes tightly,
And grabbed a fistful of hair.

But one leaked out,
And then there was no stopping,
As the flow of tears kept coming,
And I started sobbing.

I sank to the bottom,
Of my shower floor,
And tried to stem the flow of tears,
As I heard you, father, slam the door.

And now here I sit,
On my shower floor.
Where I have sat,
Many an hour before.

But it is an hour later,
I'm still on the shower floor,
And although the water's cold now,
There's no concerned knocking at the door.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed