I spent my childhood looking over my shoulder,
growing stiffer and colder,
afraid of my fragile soul being demeaned;
I would have rather no one intervened.
But, my bedroom was never a safe haven away from prying eyes and concerned looks
So whenever I was craving
a peaceful, private nook
To the bathroom I would spring,
my place to be understood.
sitting eye-level with the toilet,
raw and stripped,
I can allow my tears and fears to fall,
knowing no one would call.
The cold tile on my bottom
while hearing the ho-hum
of the world outside the bathroom door,
I think for a few more minutes, on the floor.
I reconcile and look for
a place inside of me that doesn’t feel like war.
I flush the toilet to give the illusion I used the bathroom for what it is meant for.
Above the sink, I meet my eyes.
They swell and they roar,
but I must cloak them in a disguise.
I wet my hands and press my fingers against my waterline
a trick learned so I appear alive;
it removes the gloss and redness of a good cry.
My outer shell is soft like caramel,
unready for the world outside the bathroom door.
But I know if I must escape what feels like hell,
The bathroom is there, for evermore.