The bathroom tile so cold beneath my feet

The bathroom tile, so cold beneath my feet,

after the holiday, too much to eat.

A little light, a sterile, green display,

to judge the sins of yesterday.

It flickered, then it fixed, a solid truth,

a stark reminder of my fading youth.

This simple number, blunt and sharp and clear,

laid out the fact, dismissing every fear

I’d tried to hide, to soften, or deny.

It stared me down, beneath a critical eye.

The cheap plastic hummed, a silent plea.

It told a story, not of me,

but just a figure, stark and grim and plain.

A cold, hard truth, delivering its pain.

And I just stood there, watching it gleam.

A bitter, waking dream.