I had a shower this morning.
These days showers are more metaphorical than anything else,
water beads that pelt me,
and wash sins away,
or so I assume.
Unseen things, unknown things – I thought were my own –
are now on full display like a merchandised window,
and the people always do a double take as they go past.
That’s just it,
knowing people will take a second look,
isn’t too different than them second guessing you,
and sometimes you just don’t want anyone’s prying eyes,
their curious nose,
nor their wondering minds.
What is this mess of a man,
scars, and bruises and well-worn hands,
words thrown up with the same well wishes as rice on a wedding day,
carefully curated,
that no one understands.
And at that point,
when no one gets the point,
when you scream down into your marrow,
‘what’s the point?’
words may as well just disappear.
If it takes the pit to be spat out for people to see that you have something in your mouth,
if it takes muting your voice to tell the world you’re not without a whirlwind of words,
then so be it,
let them taste the shrill of your silence,
and only read you when you’re dead.
Sometimes our sins keep us mute and other times they make us shake violently like an epileptic who has to sweat
involuntary spasms into thoughts,
or thoughtlessness,
inconsideration and worthlessness.
The punishment for the sin, is the sin itself,
and that’s why showers don’t work anymore.
Even throwing myself into the ocean leaves me in a tesseract of inability,
of timeless timelessness looking into time with longing and distance like I can reach it at the end of my fingertips and change it,
the elusive fuck!
If you haven’t let life beat the shit out of you for all that you are,
you haven’t told the truth to yourself,
and your sins still hold you hostage,
and that shower will always be a bandaid.
Wesam El dahabi
lonerloaner 