The bathroom tiles smell like bleach,
feel like tile ‘n grout,
but here cheek against the cold,
push.
time isn’t kind to memory,
white-space ‘n silence
rotting through,
rotting through.
Jack London taught us all,
freezing to death is more like sleep,
once the panic is gone.
stop fighting,
stop fighting.
Dickinson ‘n Death were on cordial terms,
carriage rides in the afternoon,
all the important stops in life.
here cheek against the cold,
don’t you remember?
we fucked liked this fresh out of the shower,
cold of the tile on my warm wet palms
that golden glow all around,
ripped bare ‘n rotting through,
white-space ‘n silence.
I wonder, I wonder, how much do you remember?
because I’m losing so much of it.
push kid,
you know damn well you’re worth more than this,
you useless pack of shit.
there ain’t answers in that dirt you been eyein’
ain’t nothin’ there but time ‘n laziness
you got plenty of each already,
don’t need to go pickin’ up the rest,
you got plenty.
the bathroom tiles smell like bleach,
‘n I don’t remember what you smelled like anymore,
I don’t remember what you feel like,
but “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!”
the bathroom tiles smell like bleach,
