The stall door doesn't even latch

The stall door doesn't even latch,

it just sags on the hinge, a silver

skin of industrial paint peeling away.

I shouldn't look, I really shouldn't,

but I find my own panic scratched

into the metal. No, not mine—

but his. That shaky 'M' he used to draw,

curved like a broken hip, right above

a heart that looks more like a tooth.

I pick at the flake of gray with a nail

until the rust shows through, red and dry,

like a scab I wasn't supposed to touch.

I'm sweating through my shirt again.

It's tenth grade in this fluorescent light,

waiting for a bus that’s already late,

reading a name that isn't even there,

except it is. It's right there.

God, I need to wash my hands.