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?