Washroom

I resign to the washroom,
a place where I hope I can get
a glimmer
of freedom
from you
I lock the door
sit on the tile
hoping you’ll be gone
before I stand
I am debilitated as I sit
lonesome in my isolation
harboring resentment for all
the days
you told me it’d work out
yet here I sit
aching to drown away my sorrows
(and myself)
in the clawfoot bathtub
you insisted
we own
I can hear your voice
expelling my name like a fountain
you’re screaming
from the other side of the flat
hands over my eyes, I weep
tears creating pools in my palms
your thunderous footsteps echo
you’re dizzy with anger
“WHY MUST YOU HIDE IN THERE?
ARE YOU AFRAID OF ME?!”

Those words break through to me.
In this moment,
I realize I am.

I grab a hand towel
(neutral beige just as you insisted)
when I sputter no response, you come
your fists are hammers, the door a nail
“YOU COME OUT OF THERE OR I’LL BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN!”
I’m whimpering into the towel
I want you to forget I exist
forget I even stumbled into your life
after minutes of silence
I hear your footsteps trail away
the front door screeches open
and whimpers shut
you’re gone.
the flat – a silent onlooker, a terrified child
a helpless witness of our end
I’m weeping
I’m hyperventilating. I can barely breathe
Icanbarelythink
HowmuchmoreofthiscanIwithstand?
Youaren’tworththis.