The Floor Memorizes

I woke on the bathroom floor,

my face against the grout so cold.

I couldn't say what I'd come here for,

or when, or how I'd been told.

One shoe was missing. Phone was dead.

The tiles were cold. The grout held fast

the smell of bleach and something dread—

something that was me, my past.

I've been here before. I know

this floor, this room, this way

my body finds the floor below

when I can't find words to say.

The grout doesn't judge or care.

It just holds me where I land.

My body knew to find me there,

knew I wouldn't understand.

One shoe missing. Night to night.

The floor remembers every time.

One more morning in the light,

trying to remember how to climb.