Bath Art


I’m sitting in a candy-cane-scented pool of blood, reading of war, slaughters in unstuck time, so it goes.

It is art, they both are, the words and the soaking.

I’m painting my nails red, the mermaid swaying innocently in pinkish water, too far removed from the sirens who took seaman with their crusted, edged prongs. 

He watches someone die, and I am as wild and removed without the death, though I watched a soul flee from pain once.

I’m taking care of myself, knawing guilt recedes into hunger, and the cat purrs fullfilling its simple purpose: just to be.

Art doesn’t justify a man’s conscience, but binge-watching does.

Published by celinamcmanus

See blog's About page

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: