In the Shower

Depression doesn't always "look" like depression.

In the Shower

My wrist mimics the motion of the rounded

metal valve as I spin it all the way to the left.

I let the water scald me,

but the heat and pressure always fall short.

I just want to feel something.

I step out into the opaque cover of steam.

It hides me from myself. The mirror

is blanketed in fog, the way I like it. Reflection is

too much to handle. I reach for the towel, the ratty

one that's always waiting for me—a mere 

arm's length away—and cloak myself in the familiar

synthetic fibers. I wrap and tuck my body

like an origami swan, hiding the ugly

duckling beneath. My mind lingers on those places

where the fabric brushes against

bumps and curves, those corporeal protrusions

I fight so hard to ignore. I drop the towel,

vacating my shell of safety like a hermit crab,

cringe at the momentary exposure,

and reach for the baggy clothing carelessly

tossed next to the sink, as I have a thousand times.

I move with the muscle memory of one who's mastered

the art of not seeing herself clearly.

I dress in near silence, nothing

but the sound of residual water dripping

from the showerhead. And for a fleeting moment,

I think perhaps I do feel something—

envy, clear as those final droplets as they escape

down the drain.

Alone on a Sunday Morning

Alone on a Sunday Morning 

I stand at the kitchen sink, peeling
boiled eggs, fingertips grasping at the hardened
opaque membrane. Cracked skin is met
with cracked skin. I can feel
the sharp fragmentation as
I cradle life, arrested, in my hands.

I dig at shattered remnants, desperate
to find purchase, to reach the softness within.
I lift away broken layers that pull
at the gentle flesh beneath,
too stubborn to let go. They cling to the vestiges
of what was

once whole. I watch the purity of white flesh
become marred by my earnest desperation.
I clutch the segments of fractured, empty shell.
Consumed by the endeavor, I become
lost, unable to remember how it feels
to be unbroken.