The Pharmacy of Ghosts

I was looking for a strip of plastic and gauze

to stop the red bead on my thumb.

I hit the mirror and gave a long pause

at the person I’ve slowly become.

The orange bottles rattle like dry teeth,

labels peeling for a man who moved out.

There’s a sediment of sickness underneath

the things we no longer talk about.

A ring of brown syrup is stuck to the shelf,

and the aspirin tin is rusted shut.

I’m still keeping the history of yourself

in the place where I go for a cut.