She’s been sinking for days,

the ground a swallowing mud

she’s lost all of her shoes in.

On Monday she was waist deep in regret,

now it’s Sunday and the shame

is creeping up around her throat,

flecks of distance, good enough

and you should have known better.

In her need to be clean she draws a bath

perched on the toilet seat waiting,

nothing but time –

counting cracks in the ceiling,

tired of the solitary company she keeps.

Her filthy feet, cut and dried blood,

enter the water first,

followed by a gripped waist,

ribcage cracked with sobs

and finally her face.

Bath water gathers at her edges,

bubbles shrink pricked with oxygen

she struggles to exhale.

The tiles ask her for all the names

she was called today,

the taps drip condolences

in the gaps between her toes

and the porcelain sides swaddle her

as her mother’s womb…