Static and Skin

The elevator was a metal box of damp wool,

somebody’s shoulder leaning heavy on mine.

I could hear their breathing, slow and full,

a rhythm I didn't want to align.

Now I’m in the bathroom under the halogen light,

searching my forearm for a bruise or a welt.

There’s nothing there but a patch of white,

and the memory of how that pressure felt.

I pull the sweater over my head in the dark,

watching the blue sparks snap and bite.

It’s just a tiny, electric mark,

but I’m staying in for the rest of the night.