Sanctuary

I am trembling again.

It's silent here- making friends with blinding white-tile floors. Everything smells like the sickening sweetness of bubble-gum flavored soap.

I try to turn on the faucet and cleanse my hands of my sort comings but if I push too hard on the same thought all the water buildup will explode from the nozzle, soaking everything and thus making it blatantly obvious that there is a "so called" plumbing problem behind the fixtures.So I don't touch the handles of confession that would supposedly relieve the pressure behind this stone-cold porcelain sink.

Instead of giving in to that acclaimed purification I turn towards the ever-faithful paper towel dispenser, where I will try to wipe these transgressions off of my being.

But of course, there are no paper towels. There never are.

I look into the reflective glass. A tool the human race has abused, obsessed, and devastated over. I see two spheres of blank in a skull full of shit.These "windows to the soul" are encircled with a hollow greyish yellow. A symbol psychiatrists and mothers judge this being with, condemning it to existence on insomnia and thus unhealthiness. I laugh in my head at their impertinence.All they have is their books, their manuals stating fact on why this being functions as it does. Look down into my blanking eyes, mother, and welcome to this place.Where fact is fiction, and nothing is the way it is meant to be.

Welcome to the real world.
A world where mutilated thighs and flesh wounds are all things beautiful.And the pristine is condemned.

In the end, though, it's a battle against who will end up cleaning these bathrooms. It's a job resented and repulsive to society.

Yes, it is my home. My haven. Sanctuary in a toilet stall.

There's a leak behind the wall.

Somebody, anyone, please. Please call the plumber.