Buoy

Buoy

It’s a swimming costume in the bath

kind of day.

It’s a child

pressing for privacy.

It’s the creeping fingers

crawling under your skin

in silent scorn.

It’s reading between the lines

between the lines

between the lines.

It’s force

that’s full body

but weak

like cheap shampoo.

It’s tears

mixing with a torrential shower

drowning your screams

for what feels like

fifty thousand hours.

It’s the trembling

no amount of layers

can cure.

It’s terror

without even needing

to open the door.