At Night, I Drop

I am at the point past depression

where the blackness of my emotion

is no longer a color

but a void of an overwhelmingly narcotic pit of despair and exhaustion.

Every sweet moment turns to salt

then burns like an acid.

At night,

I lay naked in a bathtub filled with lukewarm water.

Staring at the soap scum between and around the cold white tiles.

I drop a bath bomb.

But instead of flowers and fragrances

it explodes with sharp knives and rusty scissors

and stains the water crimson.

Flower Blooms