One twist
of cold silver
and icy drops
begin to pour;
soon warming air
with their dainty
breath-
and she stands there
amidst mildewed
yellow-tiled walls.

Her cheeks are tainted
with black tracks
from her obvious
attempt to appeal
and conceal
and they grow wetter
with water-
or tears-
as the two mix.
river and ocean
yet not so kind.

The thundering water
keeps a steady rhythm
as it fringes and laces
the wide-set
shower head
and mask her frantic sobs
as they evolve
into wisps of sadness.
for even with all the
water around her,
she can conjure up no more.

But even with the
scalding
nature of the
downpour
and the purifying
of a soul,
the soap scum
will still loiter
in the cracks
between the yellow
tiles,
far after this
cleansing