A mirage of a spider scales your bare back,
Peroxide bursts your plastic skin,
You cling inside a curtain, among wet tiles;
Where lime mould bleeds from bruised grout.
Mould fed the flies, now stuck in time; immobile on the ceiling from summer’s decline.
Crimson water spirals,
Drags your feet into the plug of black oblivion,
You scream to be free,
Scream not to repeat,
Repeat not; until your feet are safely entwined upon the seashell towelling bathmat.
Your mind dissipates like a phantom, like condensation,
Exhaled on a broken mirror,
You wipe your breath clear, you mutter vaguely,
Did I lock the door?
a little bird tweets 
Hello, i really like the decay and sense of paranoia from this poem. I have a similar thread that weaves through some my short stories. Thank-you for liking my recent post and following my site, much appreciated.
Hello. Thanks for taking the time to read 5am, and for commenting. I love decay or demise in plots, because I think the climb up or the feeling of an escape from a situation of turmoil is more powerful 🙂 I look forward to following more of your stories and writings. Have a great week 🙂
I can so relate to this; someone with an overactive imagination who has no shortage of dark thoughts. This gem of yours harks back to the shower scene of Hitchcock’s Psycho. Superb!
Wow, thank you so much for your kind comment! I came up with this on the train one morning, and finished it this morning 🙂 I’m very happy that this piece reminds you of a Hitchcock scene. He is one of my favourite directors 🙂 Have a wonderful day!