Shower

The towel slips off, falling to the ground, and with it falls the composure of a well-rounded girl.
My hand grasps the shower handle, turning it up, up, up. I want to burn off the façade.
The façade of a person who knows what they’re doing, who rarely has bad days, who has their shit together.
I step in, the tile floor threatening to pull me in like quicksand. The water rushes over me, tiny bullets piercing my skin.

Worthless. Disappointment. Failure.

The words ring through me. I step into the vortex of water, the eye of the storm, and let the pounding sound ring throughout me like an elephant’s heartbeat. I look down at my naked body, vulnerable and fragile.

Pathetic.

I open my eyes wide as I face the water with the eyes of a newborn. I look up, as if I can see beyond the drab white ceiling, beyond the night sky, beyond the universe, right into the eyes of God. I let the water wash my eyes out, blinding them with the reality of starting over.
I let my worries pool at my feet, wrapping around my ankles. I’m shackled there. My hand reaches out to turn the water off, but I stay in the same spot, watching the dreams of a once naïve little girl who knew of happier days spiral down the drain. I step out and wrap my towel around me, as if putting on a new mask to face the world.
But I’ll be back.
Oh I’ll be back alright.
I’ll be back with new masks to wash down the drain, new hopes to rinse off, and new tears to weave into the cascade of water droplets that fall into my outstretched hands.
There will be plenty more bubble baths of cynicism,
Beds full of defeat,
Brushing teeth with an “I’m okay” smile,
and eloquent showers of despair.