Towel at the door.

The thin blue towel that lives at the edge of my door and floor has symbolism. It sits in my peripheral vision. It’s a safety.

It symbolises that I want the poison from this room to not seep through to the other side. It means the person in here doesn’t want to be bothered. It represents my love for Sylvia Plath in the dark little way that makes me smile and the rest of the world cringe away.

I haven’t got a name for my thin blue towel, but it feels like a friend that I owe a lot to. The only one that sits with me when I want to be stewing over all that has gone on. Doesn’t criticise me for turning things over in my head.

I don’t need to apologise to my thin blue towel because it doesn’t get upset with me. It lets me go about my business in the way I want to.

If I want a hug, my thin blue towel can wrap around me and give me just a little bit of extra security. Just like a friend who wants to comfort you. It’s arms tucked around me and making me warm.

My thin blue towel.

The only thing that is here for me right now.