At Night, I Drop

I am at the point passed 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