The Scissors Slipped

The bathroom mirror is disturbed--
shower steam spills from its cyclops eye.

My paper doll is slumped
against the toilet,
orifices near her hands where
such apertures shouldn't be,
and the ceiling hangs
galaxies from tinsel-thin whispers.

And the color of the floor shrieks--
stop where you are--

you weren't invited to this reversal of baptism.
The silverfish skittering
from heating vents to feet are the
only creatures who appreciate her;
they come unsolicited,
they bear no hidden agendas.

And don't blame me, dear, for this despicable act--
you were the one who
cracked open her wrists, not
me. Not me.