Topography

The locker room hums like a dying machine.

The tubes in the ceiling cast a flat, green tint

over the mirror where the silver is peeling.

I see myself in pieces.

The skin looks like paper, or wet, thin clay.

There is a dip above the bone,

a small, purple shadow pooling

somewhere far beneath the surface.

It looks clinical.

Like a map of a place I’ve visited

but never really owned.