Between

I stood in the shower waiting for the water

to make up its mind. Lukewarm. Uncommitted.

My forearm beaded with drops that refused

to become anything definite.

The tile beneath me was mapped with stains—

that line of mildew I'd learned to ignore.

I held my breath without meaning to.

Waiting for the water to turn hot

or cold, to give me something to feel

instead of this suspension,

this tepid middle where nothing happens.

The heater was broken. The landlord knew.

I'd been standing here for five minutes

already, watching water stream down

my shoulders like I was waiting for permission

to be uncomfortable, to be angry,

to be anything but this.