There is dust shuffling across the cap of the mouthwash,
the window, the indentations in the wooden bathroom door, and
straddling the loo roll, like grey freckles.
the top of my legs are itchy against wet plastic,
hard, and even though the door is locked I feel
myself blushing; is this a safe place?
The scum around the plug hole is a claggy eye, blinking silver
and rotten hair.
No one says depression makes you cold.
Blue tiles eat up light, casting shadows on misted glass.
Dirty. Streaked with white.
And I am fading out of my skin again,
the edge of my vision is stinging and heavy,
Tightness comes, a creamy bird fluttering against my
chest and stomach and bowels and I wince,
white pills and clear liquids,
This disease is made of cloud.
No one will know where I have gone.