The Photographs

A Poem by Mel Mel

In the sadness of the bottom of a shower, inspiration can be found.

Sitting in the bottom of the shower
You feel the droplets gather
They run down your lips, your neck,
Your chest, navel and spine
The water, so hot it’s burning
Washes over your face, through your hair
Into your eyes, commanded open
Fluid movements curl your legs up to your chest
A small ball of vulnerability, forced to remain
Staged there, impenetrable yet yielding
Each drop scoring its personal heat into your body
Not exposed, but enough
When did it become too much?
The shirt, a mock shield designed to show more
Than it hides, clinging everywhere
Dripping water, purified by running through its threads
Your eyes filled with forced anguish search the ceiling
See the steam of scalding water
Drifting through the light
Held here for eternity, controlled yet controlling
Domination through submitting

Quick flashes, snapping shutters
And his camera preserves you
One last time. You are released
Dripping out into the cold, caught forever
As a small, wet being
A representation of his anguish
Developed one by one, the false torment found in your eyes
Saving him from his,
In the name of art.