Porcelain

The brown stuff. The blood drying. It speckles the white like punctuation. The end of then. The beginning of this. The wound tires. The hole remains, but nothing falls from. Nothing enters.

Fake plant. In the bathroom. Single handle faucet. Pale china sink. Grips the water. Catches the dirt. Clean razor. Electric.

Daring chins. Naked throats. With blunt pens jabbing through.

Black ink.

White sheet.

Ceiling hums. Furtive and low. Walls shrug.

I can feel the stairs out there. As they go down and up effortlessly and endless. The tickle of backward in every step.

Panties and denim trousers mingling together into a monster of discarded skins.