This poem is an exaggerated telling of my thoughts when I use hot water. I realized that it was second-person halfway through, though. I don't know why that happened. Maybe to make the audience feel it more easily?
What is that feeling you get when you put your hand under a running tap?
You're not sure what the temperature is for a moment.
You're not sure you want to know.
In that split second, you will be scared you're getting scorched.
You want to pull away, but you can't.
You can't react quickly enough to avoid it.
You can feel the beads of water hitting your hand, but it means nothing until you can tell if it's soothing or destructive.
You relax into it and decide what's to be done is going to happen regardless.
The heat hits you and you snatch your hand back in surprise.
Why must every action you do be existential?