martyr; a poem

There is a family who lives in my shower,

They’ve lived there so long I feel like a guest,

And when I get in, I greet them each day,

Even through sleep’s sweet fog, I give them my best.

But as the knob turns and water comes running,

And despite my decree each day,

The family turns and also comes running,

Much to my ardent dismay.

See when the water begins to heat,

And the shampoo lathers my hair,

The family who lives in my shower commences,

A dangerous descent into the stream of despair.

Though I tell them each day:

No, don’t come down here!

They seem to be at the showers behest,

They just can’t resist the thought of drowning in one final steamy jest.

You’ll drown, I call, best to stay static,

But the family ignores every plea,

And every morning in my little bathroom,

My shower becomes a cemetery.

Why is a moth drawn to a flame,

Though it knows it will surely perish?

And why does my family dart for the water,

Like it’s the only thing they truly cherish?

The family has lived here far longer than I,

And in truth I’m just their large roommate,

A spider’s claim to a small patch of shower,

Is as valid as it is great.

So as much as I wish I could speak their tongue,

And beg them to prolong their time,

I must continue to respect their choice,

To die in a way that is hot, wet and sublime.