fractured growth

by Brigid McCarthy

the covers breathed fire, that night, the one where my eyes didn’t close at all;
maybe sleep, an unwelcome friend, was hiding in the bathroom.
painted pink toes against dirty tile, i
stepped
in front of the looking glass as a purple thing stared back.
i spat at her feet in disgust before realizing the youth in the mirror had escaped long ago.

i took soap from the shower and tried to wash the ruin out of my pores, forgetting age is a blessing as much as it is a sentencing.

when i was younger, i thought humanity like an infinite sunrise, a fresh start of coffee, a hot cup of morning and apple.
but as my swollen lids flipped to face the bar of soap in my hand, growing smaller with every use, it bore a strange resemblance to my Nana - all used up.

the sun rose, finally.
and it looked like heaven on the horizon,
contrasting darkly next to the pieces of charcoal bar soap slowing falling down the drain, like meteors to the earth. like shooting stars. they mixed slowly with hair strands and nails and other things the mirror had taken from me.