Tell Them All

by Rose Lafleur
Staff Writer

I walked into the room like
a 25 pound weight
that I could never lift.
Tell them. Tell them all.

I started the water and
it melted my skins.
Steam lifting from the current,
liquid pooling in my water-shoes:

fluoride, peroxide and beer:

my cheeks crunch up,
but I’m underground, so I
don’t even see it,
nor does anyone else.

Tell them. Tell them all.

I sit down on the cold, ceramic, wet tub
and feel grounded and unfound
on an island of ants
in the depths of my backyard.
Through a tunnel,
behind a pile of disease,
a spider web of half-open curtains,
a slide of razors,
a nightmare where you’re in front of
your 8th grade class in your underwear
and they’re looking at your fingernails.

I’m naked.
Naked and sitting at
the bottom of the shower,
alone:
but this is a public bathroom,
and my blood
keeps banging
on the door.