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You Left Me With a Million Tiny Paper Cuts

by Jamie Stanish

The bathtub where we made love
sits empty.
It needs.
I turn the knob branded with a red
“H” to scald away the sting.

Pick-me-up girl power magazines preach
profits of aromatherapy.
I need
some kind of therapy.
I shrug, put a flame to the wick
of a candle, cleansing Juniper.
Light some incense to set the mood.

When the tub floods,
It still needs.
I submerge;
My skin burns, turns pink.
Aromas clash.

I stay in the tub, still
when a charred stick droops
and Juniper’s wick
drowns. The water,
lukewarm, forms beads
that drip down

the side of the tub.
Each one, lonely, races
the next to get
to the bottom.

Stupid beads.
They should know
what it’s like
At the bottom.