Double Line

The light in here is a buzzing, green hum

that makes my teeth feel loose.

I’m sitting on the lid because the floor

is a map of things I don't want to touch.

The line came up slow. A smudge at first,

then a bloom, like a bruise you don't remember

earning. A pink, steady warning.

I put the box in the little metal bin—

the one with the swinging door for pads—

and watched it vanish into the pile of wet paper.

My hands smell like pennies.

I can’t go out there yet.

The sliding doors at the front of the store

keep opening for people who aren't me.