Alex Hamilton poetry Alicia Stubbersfield

Very Nearly

Sunday, a quarter of an hour to midnight,

I set myself to auto-pilot

and race to the bathroom,

I know I won't go through with it in the morning.

But it must be done.

I reluctantly take my first step

icy damp tiles awaken my weary sole,

tepid water trickles gently from the rusting tap.

A sign perhaps?

Not to go through with it?

I rustle around for the cheap disposable razors,

inadequate, but they'll get it over with

a single purposeful sweep removes enough condensation for the job.

I gaze half heartedly at the shattered mouldy mirror,

stretch and submit my open throat.

A wet hand struggles to secure the slippery, razor thin, cracked soap.

Like a melting piece of ice with streams of dark blackened scars appearing.

I lather the thin concoction and apply it to my face.

Three day Auburn stubble,

I begin the stinging process, scanning the mirror for guidance,

Avoiding my eyes at all costs, a feat too numbingly perfected.

The Azure that once smiled,

Now a fading, hollow grey.

I grab the third disposable razor and reapply the soap,

the water is cold now and my skin raw.

I cut through the final fiery flecks of hair

A temporary, crackling diversion from my mind.