Inventory

The hinge is loose, the mirror tilts a bit.

I find the shelf where all the ghosts still sit.

A sticky ring of rust and shaving foam

reminds me that I’m not the first at home.

A bottle full of pills from three years back,

the label's torn, the plastic shows a crack.

I’m bleeding on the porcelain, looking for a way

to patch the skin and survive another day.