Waterproof

The tube is cold and stiff with age.

I squeeze the trigger until my palm goes white,

forcing the paste into the black-lipped gap

where the tub meets the tile.

It smells of vinegar and old secrets.

I run a finger down the line to smooth the edge,

but the bead sags, crooked and thick,

catching on the mold I couldn't scrub away.

Now it's drying on my skin, a second layer

that won't wash off. I’m sealing the draft,

binding myself to a room that doesn't fit,

making sure the leak stays on the inside.