Porcelain Confessional

It was cold, the toilet rim.

My palm pressed flat against it,

that damp, heavy weight

of someone else's hair

sliding through my fingers.

Not a thank you, not even a look.

Just the sound, a heave

and then the quiet drip

of the faucet.

Someone else’s mess,

always.

And you just hold on,

until it’s done.