The Shallow End

The bottle slipped, a thick and neon red,

and bloomed across the bath mat like a wound.

I’m too tired to move, so I rest my head

against the porcelain where the pipes are tuned

to a low, metallic thrum. My lungs are wet,

filled with a heavy, gray, and shifting silt.

I haven't seen the sun or the sidewalk yet,

just the sagging landscape of the house I built

from fever and fleece. On the nightstand, a pile

of crumpled tissues sits like a colony of moths,

dead and papery, gathered for a little while

in the stagnant air between the unwashed cloths.

I think I saw the bathroom door begin to drift,

or maybe the floor is just tired of being flat.

The world is a gift that I’m too weak to lift,

so I watch the stain darken on the white mat.