The tiles in my bathroom
The tiles in my bathroom are marble; veined and cold:
The charcoal veins, the creamy stone; like skin gone tough and old.
A smooth redecoration, your choices in the tile,
I didn’t care, I didn’t choose; I only chose your smile.
It mattered to you somehow, this surface chic and shell:
It mattered what they thought although they didn’t know you well.
We’ll cover it with marble, then maybe they won’t see,
We are their fears, your heart and mine – and you chose that, chose me.
They all came to your funeral,
like pigeons ‘round a dove.
You’re colder now than that cold wall, the veins not stone, but love.
I batter at the tiles then, with fists and feet and head.
It spills, but it’s not marble now:
Arden Hunter is an aroace agender writer, artist and performer. They enjoy creating art around themes of identity, what makes a human ‘human’, and how we all relate to the world. They have words coming up in Farther from the Trees, The Confessionalist and Pop the Culture Pill, among other places. Find them on Twitter @hunterarden, come say hello!