There is something
so familiar
about fluorescent lights
and white tile;
it's so familiar
my stomach aches.

I think it comes
from the times
I laid myself bare
in bathroom stalls;
safe havens
of false privacy,
a reliable friend.

The trash receptacles
that held words
that choked
my fifteen year old throat.

The faithful ceiling fans
that ****** up
my desperate
time killing smoke.

The scratched up mirrors
I'd stare into
without even
seeing myself.

I could sit for hours
hot head on the cool tile
the bright lights
tiring my eyes,
tasting salt,
and smelling the cheap
pink soap,
feeling the heavy
comfort, like home.