They feel the same small destruction as I do.

False ideals burst and splatter on their walls as they do mine.

Yet somehow a silent alarm is tripped and they rise up, straight and strong whenever I find solace on the cool, hard bathroom floor.

Their heads turn at the same time, with that sideways look of knowing.

And if possible, I sink lower than the floor.

Level by level.

They guard the door and every word they speak is soaked in pretense.

I see you out there. Beyond them.

Too preoccupied to beg them to part, and too preoccupied to ask for my hand.

Too preoccupied to help me up.

If time had a speed and a colour in this moment, it would be glacial grey.

That’s the strange thought that keeps cycling through my head as they simply stare through me.

They ignore the movement of my hand splaying and tensing against the tile.

All I can wish now is that eventually I’ll reach a level where they can no longer see me.


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