The Bath

Poem By Eloisa Gearhart

Unworthy of my time or my glance
My hands plunged beneath the water
felt the coolness turn to ice and my skin began to sting
Washed myself of you and your foolish games
Your taunts, your perceptions and your names
Your breath hung over me like a cloud and my vision was blurred
until I was only an amorphous silhouette shifting in the fog
unable to discern my own self from this thickness

The searing, the severed nerves burning inside
my legs enter the deep
Needles, stabbings
spreading until it covers my chest
freezing me, halting my breath
I'm alive but it hurts to feel this much
I'm washing myself of you

Swaying shapes in this chill as the water covers my mouth
I think I'll breathe no more
flaring nostrils inhale this liquid, ice scraping against my cheek
The mark it leaves
red and bruised
I'm freezing
White of my eyes now sanguine
the line of water and air slashing my pupils so I can see clearly
Cleansing myself from the memory you memorized of me

I'm washing myself of you

Comments about The Bath

Awesome. Great descriptions.
Chilling stuff. I like line 1 verse 2.

Rating Card

4,0 out of 5
2 total ratings

Other poems of GEARHART

That Which Is Forbidden From The View Of An Insomniac

In the dark hours, my head over sized and thick
thinking my neck would be crushed under its weight I dared not
a glance behind me, afraid I'd hear the snap and then

Calm In A Box

Calm in a Box

11: 59 the black steams in a cup on the stand beside me from a box labeled 'CALM' in large letters and I can only hope that the blend of the black will do the trick:

The First Draft Of My Soul

The First Draft of my Soul
*God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? —Nietzsche, The Gay Science, Section 125

Sour Dough

Sour Dough (for my great grandmother, Icie)

Mottled, repulsive
Thin, cotton, flowery day dress

Pretty, Like That?

Is it easier to be coded and hard to decipher?
For then

You can be labeled...