Drain

[fromcancertocapricorn]

Have you ever caressed the bottom of a shower-drain?
Only a few inches, yet separated by warmth, metal.

When I caressed the bottom of the drain, I was washing.
I turned the water up just a little too high:
it melted me.
I drained into the drain,
channeling through the rivets previously under my feet.
Often I don’t love these indentations,
they leave marks in my feet, they leave marks on my skin.
But they guide me towards the drain I have
so long wondered about.
I never feel as if I’m actually in my body, just slightly outside:
watching myself slink into this drain,
the veins in my hands turning to string and yarn and thread,
I hit replay on the experience,
Fingers reaching downwards,
seeking the profound mold that grows below.
The grate is warm but the bottom is cold.

Edit:
Have you ever caressed the bottom of a shower-drain?
Only a few inches, yet separated by warm metal.

When I reached the bottom of the drain, I was washing.
I turned the temperature up just a little too high:
it melted me.
I drained into the drain,
channeling through the tile-separating rivets previously under my feet.
These indentations had always been uncomfortable,
pressing against my feet, leaving marks on my skin.
But they guided me towards the drain I had
long wondered about.
I never felt as if I was actually in my body, just slightly outside:
watching myself slink into this drain.
The veins in my hands turned to string and yarn and endless spools of thread,
making my journey ever more unconquerable, grading me.
My fingers forever reaching downwards,
seeking the profound mold that grows below, I waited for my destination.
Once there I returned to solidity, and found there was not moss or sponge,
but just more hard metal, leading on a path forever downwards,
with a close and idealized end.
The grate was warm but the bottom was cold.

[Keith]

Hi FromC to C
I struggled with the poem, it is an odd take of life in a shower and sticking your fingers down the plug hole, some of your phrasing feels off, throughout the poem I was looking for more or at least a twist in the tale but it never came. As a shared experience it needs some of the wordier lines cutting back but I did enjoyed the quirky way you approached it and the images of watch the body being washed away. best Keith

I have made some comments below

Have you ever caressed the bottom of a shower-drain?
Only a few inches, yet separated by warmth, metal. This sets up your theme so I guess its needed in some form, could do more with the title

When I caressed the bottom of the drain, I was washing.
I turned the water up just a little too high: could you say this a different way, caressed doesn't seem right.
it melted me.
I drained into the drain,
channeling through the rivets previously under my feet. Rivets ?
Often I don’t love these indentations, consider re-phrasing
they leave marks in my feet, they leave marks on my skin.
But they guide me towards the drain I have
so long wondered about. you don't need but or so
I never feel as if I’m actually in my body, just slightly outside:
watching myself slink into this drain,
the veins in my hands turning to string and yarn and thread, some good images here that start to bring the poem alive
I hit replay on the experience,
Fingers reaching downwards,
seeking the profound mold that grows below. Not sure about this...are you?
The grate is warm but the bottom is cold. why is that ?