Bathtub

I don’t have any pretty metaphors left tonight.

No flowery language to dull the ache in my bones. 

From where I sit in my little grey square of a room I can only see a few things.

A door. 

A toilet.

And a faded colorful bath mat. It makes a lovely backdrop for my state of mind.

If this was a movie there would be deep symbolism. The grey of the walls would be reminiscent of a jail cell. The visible lock on the door would show my part in it all. 

The faded mat with its blue flowers and orange stripes?

Me I suppose. 

And then the actress. She would be divine. 

A single tear would glide down a flawless cheek. 

The audience would be captivated. 

What could possibly ail this gorgeous woman.

But as I am often reminded. This is not a film. This is a cruel reality. And for tonight at least. I have no more metaphors. 

But if it was a painting I can’t help but wonder what it would be like. 

Would it show the world from my angle? 

Would it show me?

Perhaps an arial view? 

Or from the fourth wall? 

The grays and blues would be cool and calm. Would the brown of my hair provide warmth? Or would it be dull and lifeless?

But there is no use in speculation. Because none of this is a painting. And there isn’t any symbolism anywhere.

No amount of pretty metaphors or flowery language could change anything. 

Because in this world at least, I am nothing more than what I am. 

Mismatched pajamas

Loose hair and tears 

Sitting in a bathtub, waiting for the light of day. 

I don’t have any pretty metaphors left tonight but if I make it to the light then maybe I will.