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I write a lot of my poems from my bathtub floor Soaking up sadness til the water gets cold Til my silence grows old Til my tears meet the water And the stanzas are told  
I remember when my grandmother used to bathe me in her pink granite 90s bathtub She would pick me up a cup, laced with BPA, and fill it with lukewarm water Never too hot, for it might harm the child
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I can't remember a time when it was not normal to live in my head this way. To sit on the floor of the bathtub and be content with not washing up or being active in anything in particular. This was my Nirvana.
  I let myself cry in the tub When the water is hot So I can pretend That they're not tears Just water for bathing
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