Camille Moreau

Mindfuck

When you shower in my skull
the steam fogs up my glassy eyes like a cataract.
You stand under
the dome of my veins, doused
in my blood, scrubbing your skin with
soap made from my subcutaneous fat. You sing
and your breath makes its way
through the saliva sieve in my throat to go brush my
belly like a western wind that tickles and wounds.
My showerhead is detachable, so you use it to
spray your spine, and I get to know
the parts of you that even you can't reach.
The droplets that fall from your body drip repeatedly
on the same 
spot on my forehead until I can’t stop 
seeing you on the backs of my eyelids.
 
If I can't tell
that you hurt me without losing you, let's sit
together until the tub breaks. Eventually the echo 
will get so clear it will pierce my eardrum and you 
will come oozing out 
as clean as a bruise.

Camille Moreau grew up between Paris and in Baltimore. Having just finished her undergraduate degree in English, she is working as a literacy educator in the Bay Area. Her work has appeared previously in "S/He Speaks 3: Voices of Women & Trans Folx".