Industrial

The bulb overhead has a headache.

It hums a flat, electric note

that makes the tile look like bone.

In the mirror, I am mostly shadow.

The skin pulls tight over the ridge,

carving out a dark, triangular cup

where the collarbones meet the throat.

It’s deep enough to hold a few drops of water

or a small, sharp secret.

The light doesn't want to reach in there.

It prefers the flat surfaces,

the cold porcelain and the glass.