Serena Malcolm

She is a mouse
Hiding from the volley of truth
The folly of youth
Has her reading the back of the shampoo
While they shout
Building a tower of cotton buds
While they scream
Staring through the green viscosity of the handwash
Ignoring the atrocity of another smashed plate
Another crash of hate
She is a mouse in her hole
Her sanctum
Her tile-lined cell
With the chips of missing grout she’s come to know so well
Cold stone numbing her cheeks
As the minutes pass like weeks
Until the voices hush
And the adrenaline dumps
And she slumps against the bath
No longer the mouse
but its shadow
in the aftermath.