A Letter to Me from My Thoughts
Sitting in the shower makes you think.
The methodic falling of water forces you into your own head.
You feel the droplets slowly making your legs become tingly, almost numb,
Falling against your outstretched legs as if they were one big mass
Leading you to think that maybe that mass could be him.
After all, the water is warm and comforting and sitting in the shower, you feel at home.
Isn't that the same feeling you got with him?
You shake it off.
Begin collecting water in your hands to distract from the collection of thoughts.
But as the water amasses and begins to overflow, he comes leaking into your head again.
What is he doing there?
Doesn't he know he's interrupting your shower?
You part your fingers and allow the water to spill,
Hoping your thoughts will do the same,
Hoping he spills out of your mind and down the drain.
You know the drain is clogged and trying to flush him away is futile, but more water keeps coming, each drop with a thought.
You need to make room.
This shower simply isn't deep enough and this brain is at maximum capacity.
But as it seems, he won't fit through the drain.
You thought you could get rid of him that easily?
Your hands start to prune.
Get out of the shower.
Get out of your head.
Showers weren't made for sitting, they were made for singing.
So get out and face the music.
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