The Label

They were in the shower.

The water running.

The door closed.

The orange bottle sat on the nightstand

like it was waiting for me

to do exactly what I did.

I picked it up.

I read the label.

Their name printed there

in that clinical way,

in that way that makes

private things

official.

Halfway through reading,

I knew I shouldn't be reading.

Halfway through knowing,

I kept reading anyway.

The information sat in my hands

like a violation I couldn't undo,

like curiosity had become

a kind of crime,

like I'd crossed a boundary

that was never meant

to be crossed.

I put it back.

Carefully.

As if putting it back

could erase

the fact that I'd been there,

that I'd read it,

that I now knew

something I wasn't supposed to know.

The water kept running.

I stood in the doorway

and felt like a trespasser

in my own guilt.