The Five O’Clock Shadow

I found a pack of disposables tucked

behind the aspirin and the old cologne.

Remnants of a life that was suddenly chucked

when I started living in this house alone.

The plastic cap pops with a hollow sound,

the smell of the lather is chemical sweet.

I track the blade over the uneven ground

where the neck and the jawline meet.

A thin line of blood begins to bloom

on the white of the towel, a small red stain.

I stand in the steam of the quiet room

and feel the sharp edge of the domestic pain.