white
I like being alone. I can take my time in the shower, actually shave my legs for no reason. Let the conditioner soak in a little longer. When I don't take a shower to get clean as much as I do to just be alone.
Sometimes there are mirrors in the bathroom, so that when I pull the shower curtain back I see myself, red from the water. I put my hands down to my sides, outstretching my fingers to watch the water drip off of them. They're too long for the rest of my body, and I realize how hard it is to look graceful.
I take my time getting ready, wearing the towel for as long as I can stand it. When I get my own apartment or house the bathroom is going to mean a lot to me. The counter, the light, the mirror. I'll be able to walk from the bathroom to my bedroom without worrying about whether or not I'm wearing a towel.
Before I do anything to myself, before I slather on the sunscreen that protects me from cancer but could give me cancer, the powders, the thick black sludge that I carefully put as close to my eyes as possible, I look at myself.
I take in the dark circles under my eyes, how the skin there almost looks transparent. I look at the red spots on my nose, the blood vessels that have risen to the surface, the same ones that my dad has.
I stand and notice how my thighs touch, put my hands on my hips to see what I would look like without love handles. Skinnier. I look at the skin on the backs of my thighs, how it's not smooth anymore. I think about what Hank said to me once, about my calves being too big, that my thighs rub together. He had said it while I was in the tub, vulnerable. When I went back to Chico I remember running bleachers over and over again with Matt because I told him that I wanted to work on my legs.
As easy as it is to dismiss someone as being an asshole, it's hard to forget the words once they've been said. You only ever remember the bad stuff, the things that you tell yourself you'd never take now, that you'd throw back.
I take an upward breath and my stomach sucks inward and I can see my ribs. I pull my hair back with one hand and look at myself for a long time, trying not to judge myself and just observe, wondering what I really look like as I walk through the world.
Then I slip into the white bed, not caring that the blinds are open. I lay upright, free of clothes that will define how I feel, will make me either too big or too small, too wide or too narrow, too long or too short. Things that only matter because of clothes.
Maybe that's why I take so long to get dressed in the morning.
Sometimes there are mirrors in the bathroom, so that when I pull the shower curtain back I see myself, red from the water. I put my hands down to my sides, outstretching my fingers to watch the water drip off of them. They're too long for the rest of my body, and I realize how hard it is to look graceful.
I take my time getting ready, wearing the towel for as long as I can stand it. When I get my own apartment or house the bathroom is going to mean a lot to me. The counter, the light, the mirror. I'll be able to walk from the bathroom to my bedroom without worrying about whether or not I'm wearing a towel.
Before I do anything to myself, before I slather on the sunscreen that protects me from cancer but could give me cancer, the powders, the thick black sludge that I carefully put as close to my eyes as possible, I look at myself.
I take in the dark circles under my eyes, how the skin there almost looks transparent. I look at the red spots on my nose, the blood vessels that have risen to the surface, the same ones that my dad has.
I stand and notice how my thighs touch, put my hands on my hips to see what I would look like without love handles. Skinnier. I look at the skin on the backs of my thighs, how it's not smooth anymore. I think about what Hank said to me once, about my calves being too big, that my thighs rub together. He had said it while I was in the tub, vulnerable. When I went back to Chico I remember running bleachers over and over again with Matt because I told him that I wanted to work on my legs.
As easy as it is to dismiss someone as being an asshole, it's hard to forget the words once they've been said. You only ever remember the bad stuff, the things that you tell yourself you'd never take now, that you'd throw back.
I take an upward breath and my stomach sucks inward and I can see my ribs. I pull my hair back with one hand and look at myself for a long time, trying not to judge myself and just observe, wondering what I really look like as I walk through the world.
Then I slip into the white bed, not caring that the blinds are open. I lay upright, free of clothes that will define how I feel, will make me either too big or too small, too wide or too narrow, too long or too short. Things that only matter because of clothes.
Maybe that's why I take so long to get dressed in the morning.