you stick green stars on the shower curtain and say
i want you to see the sky everywhere. but
i spray plastic off the walls and
watch them churn down the drain with my split ends
the shampoo that runs down my back streams in white frothy clouds;
i do not need you to give me a sky.
that night i go to bed with a wet head
and the ceiling cuts green through my eyelids.
you constellate every careful thing that touches you so don’t try and give me a sky
i pull skin off to protect my eyes from the messes that you inspire
it is so cold with just my bones, but now
at least i can sleep.
water pools to my knees and spills out across the tiles
here i look for yesterday’s seaweed
here i pour baking soda on the ground and scrub you out from the grout
here i fish clumps of hair and mangled plastic and bits of skin out of the drain
then scatter everything across the bathroom floor
you see? i scream, pulling tangled kelp out the sink,
i do not need a sky when this is an ocean