down the drain

the moths in my shower drowned.

they zig zagged down the drain

all surprised

as if they didn't expect an answer to their deathwish

from the false prophets in their safe haven.

march turned into july and i refused to move away.

termites will slash through forest walls

even if they're plated with red marble.

in the shower the water fills the moths to the brim

then turns to flay my stomach in grease.

as if it wouldn't happen again.

as if i didn't settle down again 

in a porcelain recess of thorns

counting down the days 

'til the tap turned on.