Toilet Ghost

By Rochelle Roberts

At night a girl haunts my toilet. 
I see the shadow of her 
in the hallway, hear 
the bathroom door open, 
bare feet on cold tiles. 
I have never seen her face 
but in the mornings I 
find clumps of her hair, 
long black strands floating 
in the water like tentacles. 
She formulates into a shape, 
stepping cyclically around my head, 
seeping out of my mouth 
until she becomes someone I accommodate, 
a guest in my house. 
I begin to leave halved figs in the sink, 
place blankets and pillows 
in the bath before bed. 
I make sure there is enough toilet roll. 
I use the downstairs toilet so as not to disturb her. 
I wake to find the figs eaten, 
the blankets heavy with shower gel, 
footprints outlined in urine. 
I wonder if she has ever learned to use a toilet. 
She stays for two months, 
small disturbances seeping to the rest of the house. 
Her hair hangs from door knobs 
and windows. 
She begins to leave a trail of fig pulp, 
spots of yellow urine on the floor. 
Flies cluster round. 
I keep bleach in by bedroom, 
stumbling around, half asleep, 
to clean up after her. 
But one day she is gone. 
The traces of her disappear, 
the flies leave with her. 
I stop putting figs in the sink. 
I start to use the upstairs toilet again.

This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #1. To go back and read more, click here.

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