A Sudden Sinking Feeling in the Bathroom at a Goth-Prom House Party
Never a hand towel.
Cut my finger gripping the chipped sink.
Blood runs down old toothpaste-chunks.
Muffled music leaks under the door,
punctuated by impatient knocking.
Someone’s deodorant and the stale urine
of eight consecutive girls.
Vague ringing in the ears amplified by
myriad liquors and saccharine.
Bloated. The taste of the absence of water.
Strum of the guitar I don’t have.
Flaccid, droopy face sags in the mirror,
looking somewhere just south.
Anxious feet outside, calling, calling.
