The bathroom knows my secrets.
The bathroom is
the one room in my house
in which all the worst things
have happened to me.
The bathroom is where I disappear to
after every meal
and retch until I am as empty as before.

The bathroom is where I hide
to cut
deep gashes in my arms
and cry over all of life’s woes
my tears disguised by the shower,
my blood washing secretly down the drain
unbeknownst to anyone.

The bathroom is where I rush to if
I start to panic, my lungs closing up and
my breaths cut off short.
Jumping into a hot shower, still fully clothed, and
standing with my arms stretched out in front of me,
planted on the wall,
my head hanging under the water, which
drips
slowly off my nose as I gasp for breath,
which the steam finally delivers.

I’m so pathetic.
I’m such a disappointment.
More tears.
More pain.
More blood.
Step slowly out of the tub to find my soggy, bedraggled reflection
staring despairingly back at me,
makeup running all down my face,
my hair hanging wet in tangled clumps,
my clothes soaked
and plastered
to my rail-thin body,
looking very much like something my cat would drag in
and leave sitting under the coffee table,
an offering for my mother.
Shudder.
My mother. If only she knew…
If she could see me now, if she found out what it is I do in here…
But she won’t.
She’ll never know.
Because it’s just me in here, alone.
The bathroom will always keep my secrets.
No one will ever know.