Forensics

The microwave door is a map of my crimes.

When the sun hits the kitchen at four,

I see the greasy palm, the frantic press,

the evidence of a midnight binge

I was too tired to even acknowledge.

There’s a dull smudge on the fridge handle, too—

a forehead print where I must have leaned

waiting for the water to boil.

Just a series of oil marks and gray blurs,

the messy biology of surviving a week

that didn't want me in it.