There was a gun in the bathtub.
She said she liked to wash in her own filth.
Gravity pulled the water from its home in the sewers
In the belly of the city into the veins of the building
Into the tub.
She said she didn’t want her skin anymore, she said it
scratched and scarred at the slightest touch.
She said the water could have it.
But the water cooled and her skin remained,
Red flushes covered her like a patchwork quilt being unpicked.
Fingers slipped over the plug,
reaching to steadily unfill the tub, herself.
There was a gun in the bathtub,
A gun with limbs and muscles and neurons