The smells
The stains...
They will never fade
Just like the deity
That runs rampant through the pages
Of the most convenient holy book.
The bathtub seems to be
Your altar
Water
Blood
All of life’s little impurities
Gurgle down the drain
While your soul
Lies withered on the
Cold porcelain bottom.
Disconnected?
Detached?
Separated?
Don’t worry dear mother
I’ll burn the flowers and leave
The ashes on your grave...
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