Pristine

When you rifled the electric toothbrushes
in the supermarket for that particular shade
of cerulean or whatever it was, and matched
the mirror plastic exactly to the wall, I knew
we were in trouble. I sat on the toilet with
the door open when you were out, just so
there was something less deliberate. But
it was the pink cup that irked me most, where
I was left to stuff my scragged toothbrush,
because the contrast was so blatant – and
that nail brush sitting there like a spirit-level.
I became oppressed by the gleams in porcelain.

So, when I had finished, I washed my hands
of all of that, and when the towel slipped
from its ring, I left it there. I turned the tap
on full, put the plug in and walked out naked
down the road. I heard sirens: them coming
to take me away, as your vanity overflowed.