This is the shower. It is in your bathroom.
There are pale blue tiles on white walls.
You were going to do a collage of sea creatures below water.
You were going to have the landlord remove the black trash bag from the window.
But you never did. The trash bag has been there for six months.
Every time he says he’ll come, he doesn’t.
He is an electrician. All of the lights in the house are faded.
There are faint black puffs of mold all over the ceiling and a ring of something in the bath tub.
You don’t know what.
Yesterday you took everything out from under the sink so when your land lord comes he can reach the pipes because your sink also clogs.
Two bottles of bleach, one bright purple bottle of Fabulosa, two dirty sponges, an empty bottle of tooth paste, ocean scented laundry detergent, and a cockroach trap.
He never comes.
Sometimes you refuse to shower but you watch the vague form form of her through the shower curtains.
In winter it is too cold for you to be undressed, but it reminds her of home.
Her breasts are smaller than she likes, but they will grow in eventually.
The hormones see to it.
It’s still catching up to her.
You worry about cancer.
You check for lumps, not really knowing what you’re looking for, but hoping you’d feel it if they were different.
When she steps out you notice the black trash bag looking back at you.
In spring the flies will take refuge there, blending in as you stand poised with a fly swatter.
There were maggots in your dad guinea pig’s face and you can never clean yourself of it.
The next thing you notice is her hiding that part of herself.
The best thing to do is not acknowledge it.
In time it will be different, but not gone.
You look back at the trash bag.
You look back to her eyes.
You look back to the blue tiles, slightly too dark to be called robin’s egg.
Later, you remember the flies when you close your own eyes and the name Beelzebub enters your mind while you hand her the towel.
When you visit the old house your old roommates will still be there, and when you use the bathroom the trash bag is there too.
But you aren’t and neither is she.
Different and gone.
Senia Hardwick is an emerging writer living in the NY metro area. She writes poetry and prose that explores the transmutation and juxtaposition of land, emotion, ordinary and the extraordinary. More of her work can be found for free at seniahardwick.wordpress.com
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