Brain Space

For the poetry, occasional prose, and potential musings of a lover of the Oxford comma.

Blue Jean Baby

I turned the bathwater 

blue. I sat in a soup

of me,

I let my mascara run

like it were running for its 

life, but didn’t make it.

I felt the shower head,

I washed the dirt away;

a bit 

of shame went with it. I let 

the dirt gather under my 

fingernails. Blue jean baby.

I let the candle burn,

It rained hard. I imagined

Winter; 

felt safe, held, in hot water. 

August. I turned the shower head 

on and rain hit the window.

I turned the bathwater

blue to hide the greys. I

washed it 

away and just a bit of 

dignity went down the drain. 

Only the bit I let go.

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