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Monday, January 2, 2012

Low. [poem]


bathroom floor, cold and uninviting
I trace the broken lines of paint on the wall
a mirror hangs but I can’t look into it
so I paint it black
I hear a pounding but it’s just the crashing of a broken heart
so I let the water scald my skin
etch a new pattern and carve a new look
I don’t recognize these blurred hands
they are weak and unsteady
I am drowning in a stream that’s no bigger than a drop
but I’m convinced that it’s a waterfall
I can’t hide that I’m overwhelmed
and maybe this cold, uninviting floor is the safest place to anchor myself
until I’m ready to scrape the black away from the mirror
and face myself.

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