The Hanging Ferns

The loofah hit the tub with a heavy, wet slap,

breaking the quiet like a sudden trap.

The suction cup failed, it just gave up the ghost,

leaving me staring at the thing I hate most.

It’s a forest of plastic, translucent and cheap,

where the green of the ferns has started to creep.

The ink is all bleeding into the white scum,

making the edges go blurry and numb.

I stand in the steam while the patterns all shift,

watching the fake leaves start to wander and drift.

It’s just a cheap curtain to hide where I bleed,

printed with shadows I don't really need.