Our hair is all over the floor
We both have a lot of it
The floor is white tile
And we can see the hair all too well
I sweep it up every now and again,
he never does, which is just fine
The hair is in the carpet too
But you can’t tell so it doesn’t matter,
There are a million things in this bathroom
Dozens of little glass bottles of oils and creams
Promised cures that never work on me
A big, pink plastic bottle of baby powder
that I don’t know how to use,
what, do I put it on my ass?
Like a baby?
His razor kit goes unused but once per month,
He worries that a scruffy beard is not presentable,
I try to convince him otherwise
My necklace holder, hanger, thing, fell off the wall
I’ve been meaning to fix it
Meanwhile it remains on the shelf on its side,
beaded necklaces all in a knot beside it
I accessorize only with scarves lately
A claw-footed bathtub,
a photograph of Marylin Monroe in white
A painting of a lighthouse up on the wall
A pile of folded, fresh towels
Slinky, vintage nightgowns hanging on a plastic hook,
A pile of Cosmopolitan magazines
and a couple of bathroom readers filled with
trivia that I have a hard time remembering
A shell soap holder
and a bar of “no waste” soap — the
manufacturer punched out the center, funny.
This is our bathroom.
There’s a toilet too.
In our bathroom, I’ve never looked in the
mirror and said “who are you?”
I need not stand and stare, searching for
myself in my reflection,
I know myself surprisingly well now
I remember being on the floor in a
bathroom once doing drugs,
when I started feeling nauseous.
I crawled over to the toilet seat and
dry-heaved into the bowl a little bit
My friend who was with me said,
You’re going to overdose if you don’t be careful,
I told her,
Give me more
I couldn’t tell you what that last bathroom looked like
I only sat in there and watched my hands doing bad things.
The few times I got up and looked into the mirror,
I couldn’t tell you who I saw looking back at me
because I still don’t know.
It was sexless,
It was weird.