An ode to the bathroom.

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.

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