The Basin

The bottle of Vetiver was heavy,

glass hitting the basin like a shot.

I was scrubbing the soap scum,

trying to make the landlord believe

I never lived here at all.

The crack is a jagged lightning bolt

striking the center of the drain.

It’s a hair, I tell myself,

until I run my thumb along the curve

and the porcelain bites back.

The blood is a bright, sudden bead

on the white, sterile slope.

I wrap my hand in a gray rag

and wait for the knock on the door.