Quintin Collins

Self-Care

I place the cup to my lips;

some bourbon escapes

to split the bathwater.

I ran this bath to relax.

I sip this whiskey

because it is expensive

for my salary. I deserve

occasional luxuries

like the organic bath bomb

dissolving blue. Death cares not

for my economics or what softness

I gift my skin, what smoothness

liquor cascades over uvula.

I don’t ponder drowning, God,

or purpose, the crags of existence

I cannot soak away, only the bourbon

wasted in the water. Bath gone cold,

bubbles dissipated, whiskey done,

my nakedness floats with seaweed,

moisturizing oil, flecks of glitter,

but when I rise from the tub,

I don’t shimmer as I had hoped.