The Slow Bloom

The toothbrush bristles are stained with grit

and my knuckles are raw from the tile.

I’ve scrubbed at the corner where the shadows sit

but the black rot has been there a while.

It’s a map of the damp, a spreading ink

clinging to the plastic hem of the curtain.

It’s the smell of the pipes and the rust in the sink,

a rot that is quiet and certain.

I wanted a clean break, a room white as bone,

but the earth keeps on pushing through grout.

It’s the sign of a life left too long on its own

until the mold puts the fire out.