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Institutional Mirrors

Danielle Hark

In the institutional mirrors,
I am dead. Pallid skin,

dark blue moons imprinted
beneath sleepless eyes,

along troubled arms, bruises
from nights of fighting

shame, hair hanging limp.
I press the solitary button,

on the cream ceramic basin
releasing a thin sprinkling,

cool water from a silver dome,
one black hole in the middle.

Faucet or robot eye watching,
controlling my every move. God

forbid I choose my own water
temperature. I splash my face,

yet still,

I look pallor mortis, grey
skin, blue lips, ready for the coffin.

When I prayed for death
this was not what I had in mind.

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