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It was our thing:  Showering together.

And they wonder why I approach it with trepidation now.  

I stand, staring at the stall where we shared laughter and tears, during those few stolen moments  of aloneness together.  My head on your shoulder, catching up on life, crying over stress, biting down a scream in lust.  

These images they haunt me as I step into the water you would consider too hot, water I use to scald your memory from my flesh.  I duck my head under the spray, allowing the tears to stream freely from my eyes.

The images overwhelm me as I sink to the floor, my sobs ripping through my throat. All the pain I hide day to day is washed naked in the shower.
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:iconmakiwulf:

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Writing = healing. Or at least my own form of therapy.

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June 10
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