2:09 AM; You, again...

I tried to build up imagery of a disgusting bathroom and transition to a (dark) story line, ending on a harsh note.

Makeup splotches and tiny paintbrushes crowd the sink.
Four long hairs trail out of its mouth
like a huge daddy long legs' spiny feet
tickling the edge of fear and disgust.

A buildup of brine on your toothbrush suggests
a thorough cleaning of the faucet or a complete
disregard for the haunting effect of
morning breath.

Rouge on the towels flakes off in puffs
every time the fan turns itself on.

A generic soap bar melts away in a puddle
and has begun a steady slope down the edge
of the sink, streaking milk lumps as it goes.

Two, no three horseshoe-shaped plastic trays sit
with their jaw open to the crusty spores that land
here and there; each orthodontist would wag their
noses if they could witness the crime against
oral hygiene, the neglect of fifth grade retainers.

The one object in your bathroom that strikes me
is the open book of poems that lies across the back of the toilet.
It looks almost brand new, but for the curled edges
and the dried and crunchy texture.

I saw you drag the Family-Sized Doritos into
the bathroom last night.
That explains the orange dust on the bath
mat and the finger-sized stains on page 57.

It doesn't explain the tears you must have wept
to make these pages curl back on themselves.

Curled almost like your fingers clutching
the rim of the toilet seat, the bath tub.
You did your best to blot the red specks
I found under the bath mat and against the cabinets.


Next time, grab the pretzels.
They won't stain the linens like those goddamn Doritos.