Floors frigid like ice
against my bare legs. I count
ten speckles per tile
At least one-hundred
tiles per stall but it’s hard
enough to focus.
Paper rolled in *****
that can’t seem to hold their shape
Unraveling.
Lead scraped against stone
making everything dull gray.
Names scribbled over.
The lock screams as it
slides to the right of the door.
Seemingly mocking.
Three large, cracked mirrors
stare unyieldingly through me.
Five minutes ‘till class.