this layer of plaster,
caked in a manner so rudimentary.
nonchalant, like it
doesn’t even need to be there,
and it probably shouldn’t.

there is no ventilation,
and the medicine cabinet reeks
of metal rusted
from condensation accumulated
over the thirty years
this attic has been converted.

droplets of tea,
tainted in that manner.
runoff can be lethal
if consumed in large doses.
it dries in gaps throughout,

tainting the underside
of a toilet seat, behind
the sink, and caked to walls.

this old haunt
is what it will be called
when the urge to scrub
the scum ceases
and the reflex gags me
to death.