Our Bathroom
a handheld mirror composed of blacks and whites
that the color in my face repeatedly offends
And you watch me lay rouge upon my cheeks.
I bleed my lips just for the look upon your face.
Like a junkie with his Heroin,
your fingers itch to get a grasp
and make of my vanity a mantle
so you can put it on and wear it out.
Your words play like tinkering off a clockwork machine
wind it up and let it rattle off it's catch phrases
so many automated responses, as wooden as your touch.
I turn away from my own reflection,
frightened by the accusations there,
and am struck by how preposterous it is,
how my dirty feet lay no smudges on the porcelain.
Your shoes are clean, the soles are polished.
You're not really here.
You're just a boy wrapped around my mind like running water,
too slippery to get a decent hold on,
but too important to stop drinking.
