I have a habit of sitting down in the shower

And curling up in a ball like how a flower

Waits to unfurl, and bloom, and tower,

And— That's a lie, actually. I have a habit of that too.

 

Truth is, I've only done that a few times.

Enough to the point where I'd almost quite like

To be known as the type who might do that sometimes.

Like, "yeah, that's the kind of guy who... sits down in the shower."

 

My mum doesn't like me taking too long.

She'd scratch vapour from windows and make a huge song

About water meters, and how wrong 

It is to steal from the clouds. She'd have a point too. 

 

Just wait for it now, she'll call again soon.

She'll come traipsing up the stairs, humming the tune

To some Westlife track from way back, like '02?

And she'll lose her shit, nearly blow a fuse

'Cause one room of the house shoots her bills through the roof.

And I'll sit here, confused, like I don't have a clue 

That she's fuming my brothers need to use that room too.

 

It's been twenty odd minutes now — that's usually her cue.

It's ok, I don't mind another minute or two;

I've got plenty of time and nothing to do.

Well, I admit that isn't quite true.

 

I admit this world's not the one I once knew.

All its pieces are sharp, and dishonest, and new.

And they don't fit together like how they're meant to.

 

I admit it seemed smaller when I stood next to you.

When I didn't know losing was a thing I could do.

I admit you're not coming, that's been long overdue.

 

I've been pretending.

But then again,

I've a habit of that too.

​

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Back to BoundBy: October'23 (Edition #5)