Become The Rain

When I’m sad I’m going to die,
or I’m worried about bombs
and things bigger than myself,
when the strobe lights and the late nights
get too loud
and I have lost myself
I get in the shower.

I’m too tall
for every bath I’ve stretched out in.
Too much made of elbows
and pink, bare skin that I don’t like
to look at.
But I can let the steam soak my mind free
from all that grit and glitter,
all the flirting and flittering,
all the fast pace, heavy bass
“I’m so off my face” neon nights,
and all that city smoke.

I can let the sticky whiskey kisses
and all those pointless conversations
in kitchens
wash off.

Burn off bad decisions
with the strong-smelling perfumes
and potions.

The best water
can be found in secret pools.
Not like that big, brash ocean
that waltzes with the world,
spitting tantrums
and swallowing sailors.

I’m too small
for every sea I’ve stretched out in.
Too much made of bones that break
and breathing.

But I can let the tide lead
and carry me, like I’m blossom
on a breeze.

I am lighter
in the rhythm of the waves
and its consoling to know
that my crying, may,
one day,
become the rain
that I use to start again.

No, the best water
can be found in those secret pools
in Scotland.
Framed by untrodden tangle wood,
warm light and witchcraft.
Those pools where insects fly
just above the surface,
carrying the sun on their backs.

Here, the water hurries
over warm stones, or sits
quiet and content.
Its cold when you jump in,
knocks all the train journeys
and television from you.

Here, it is all green and golden
and I am the perfect size.

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