Unmarked

I let it all sit on the counter.

The tubes, the bottles, the cotton ball rolling

toward the sink. One orange container—my name

on it still, dated 2017. I don't remember

taking these. Don't remember when I stopped.

The expiration date worn to nothing.

I pick up another, shake it. Something rattles.

The cap is dry-rotted. When did I buy this?

For what? The mirror above the sink

reflects the mess back at me like a question

I don't have time to answer. My hand

stays on the edge of the counter.