Bathroom Tiles

I take a picture inside every bathroom,

Mentally marking the walls

And wrapping caution tape

Across the memories.

I slide a phone out of my pocket,

Too tight. Sweaty. Full of lint.

Hold it up with shaking hands

And click the shutter

Before my heart can think

To mimic my breath

And stop.

.

They are relics.

Little pictures of places I never

Want to be again.

They're reminders of the cold cruelty

Of a reality that sends me off

To the bathroom to cry.

To lock a door, turn on the water,

And jitter in front of a mirror

While my heart flip flops, stutters, stops,

And twirls in my chest.

.

Bathroom tiles mark my memories,

Shakey chalk outlines of bad times.

I hold the pictures in my mind,

Neon warning signs

Of when the world went so sideways

I could only stumble to a private place,

Lock the door,

And wait until the demons chewing me apart

Had finally eaten their fill.

.

Blue tiles, rounded squares, and small

Taste like sour medicine.

The words of a failed suicide.

Mismatched linoleum, hot and salty,

Smelling like I'd never come home the same.

Black checkered. A bruise I'd feel forever.

Fat white squares. Failure. Fever. Fury.

Department store gray. Hunger. Starvation.

Bile burning in my throat.

Golden tiles, beautiful in the amber light,

So incongruent to the place they lived.

A funeral home.

.

The shutter clicks.

.

I have never forgotten the inside

Of the lonely bathroom stalls

That bore witness to the broken thing

Trying to flap its wings in my chest.

The black and white marble,

Streaked gold and sparkling,

Stains my memory and sours my food

Because I can smell the warning there.

I can feel the tears burning in my eyes,

Tightening angry hands around my throat.

.

I can remember biting my lips till they bled.

Choking down chocolate cake

And smiling as though my heart

Had not been wrung dry,

Bean until it no longer worked.

I remember the smooth walls.

The untouched, pristine sink.

The white flowers of mourning

Handing me their condolences.

.

It is easy to remember the curves of a prison.

Easy to recall the blood

Pounding in my veins, going cold then hot

Then cold again.

It is easy to remember the pain.

The stark loneliness. The closed door.

But it is easy to forget the bathroom warning signs.

Easy to forget the blood on the tile.

The dirt in the corner. The tears in my eyes.

.

So the shutter clicks.

The caution tape is drawn.

The door is opened but another hellish altar to fear

Has been spawned.

.

Nathalie Daux

.