Around my bulging linen waist,
my knees upon the tile,
my cotton chest, my very best,
stained and smudged with bile.

My mouth, my chapstick lips are smeared,
my knuckles painted white.
I run the sink, I fear to think
and cleave to shrouding night.

My throat remembers its baptism,
flat and sharp my stomach sings.
As I fix my hair, in the mirror I stare,
a wistful smile of secretive things.