My body convulses,

stomach muscles tighten,

sides are aching,

shuddering with pain.

 

I cry out;

the only time I make a sound.

 

Unable to stand,

I hunch forward.

The wet handle

provides gripping support.

 

The pain intensifies.

My mouth opens;

some screams are silent.

 

I see life

through your eyes.

Your dark memories

become my own.

 

"Stop," I whisper.

But it doesn't.

 

Barely breathing now,

so much pain.

I am alive

with its song.

 

Suddenly, I'm gasping,

lungs craving oxygen.

 

I gulp air,

cautiously steady myself,

lean against the

slick, tile wall.

 

My sides are sore,

but the shaking stops.

 

My eyes open,

blinking away water.

The handle turns,

the water stops.

 

I leave the shower,

reach for a towel,

wrapping it around me.

 

My, your, our,

pain ran deep.

Hate is impossible,

only compassion now.

 

No more tears.

The pain was

too intense for tears.

 

And it passed.