Structural

The bathroom bulb has a dying hum.

I’m staring at what I’ve become.

I pull the cotton over my head,

thinking of things I should have said.

The mirror shows a jagged ledge,

my collarbone, a sharpened edge.

It looks like a handle, a place to grip,

before the rest of me starts to slip.

Pale and hard under the light,

keeping the skin pulled way too tight.