Shelf Life

The mirror swings open to reveal the stash

of every small war I’ve had with my head.

There’s a tube of ointment for a phantom rash

and pills for the things that I should have said.

A bottle of cough syrup has leaked a red ring,

a sticky, dark halo on the white enamel paint.

It’s expired by a year, a thick, cloying thing

that smells like a cherry becoming a taint.

I’m looking for aspirin at three in the morning

while the orange plastic catches the bulb.

The labels are peeling, a quiet kind of warning,

buried in the back of the medicine’s pulp.