Liz Powe

I didn’t want to shower this morning.


Not because I was already clean,

But I could still feel your fingertips

On my hips.

My waist.

My face.

My shoulder blades.


Stroking them,

While your other hand was wrapped in my hair.

Your mouth on mine,

And the faint smile when we pull away

Scarred on your lips.


But I still got in the shower,

I still turned on the water,

And I scrubbed until I couldn’t breathe.


Then I just stood there,

As my skin stung,

And my breath ran fast.


The fresh smell,

Tainted with the heart ache.

Infiltrated with the sobs strewn.

Stripped from my body

As you left.


The mistakes I’ve made,

Etched in my brain,

Engrained in every crevice,

And haunting my thoughts.


But then you get out,

Dry off,

And turn to the world.

Naked but not naïve,

Just heartbroken and wiser.

Liz Powe is from a small town on the east end of Long Island named Greenport. Currently a senior with a history major and English minor at the University at Albany, she dedicates her love of writing to her family and friends.