tiny boxes hang suspended
rows of lemon moonlight
burning just in your honor
the stale air of the bathroom envelopes you

like a moth in a cocoon
you are pale and shivering
reckoning for space within this empty stall
you kick the door, bored, and rattle the lock
trapped in a silk shell of your own making
ready for release

the sound bounces off dusty ceramic tiles
your anxieties echoing against pastels
it feels like walking on egg shells
it feels like waiting to hatch
and there is a sort of elegance
to this game of waiting it out

the chill of the floor seeps in
you sit in a womb of ice
baby blue and cream and cold
and you won’t feel warm again
until class is over
and you slip slowly
out the door
out the hall and
fly.