The brain is a machine

Shower

I slip my boney, battered toes
Into the rectangle of simulated rain.
Pulling my greasy hair from its bun,
I shampoo.
Carnations fall, withering, and spin down the metal hole.
I rinse my anxiety, depression, and anger.
Sadness follows.
I condition creativity.
Facade covers my loofah.
I slather myself in soap-like kisses, washing away my reputation.
I cup my sore breasts, take a deep breath, and baptize myself in a broken mask.

The water stops.
I step out in a moss wrap.

Don't ask me who I am.
I don't even know.