The Bathroom Floor

By Shragvi Yadav

The bathroom tiles lay cold,

And coldest in the darkest summers,

Guilt crawls up my feet like the ants on the floor,

Passions lay wetted into those half-filled tubs—

Tubs that stink of a spring I never lived,

“I can’t hold the pen now, so I’ll just let the tears suffice.”

There is something odd about those cold tiles—

Something achingly warm,

Bended knees, helpless hands,

We try to understand things before we can.

The world feels big and scary from the bathroom floor,

At least—distant.

I look outside the window of my bathroom,

I gaze at the endless,

I see them—

The dirt off of my body floating in the gases,

Dancing like freedom.

The ants have got off my skin,

The face is empty—

Empty of questions,

And the tiles remain cold,

The coldest when I sit there.

By Shragvi Yadav