Bathtime

Crying in the bath is a strangely comforting thing.

The stinging sensation when the tears hit my warm face with extra bite and trickle down to meet the hot water, merging my fresh sorrow and dirt. Is there something cleansing about floating in our own grief?

I pick up a razor and fight the urge to slice and instead begin to shave, going through the motions because I want to feel my own softness, allow myself to be beautiful, because tonight he might call me, or I might end it all and I’d rather leave a good looking corpse.

Later when I pull the plug and see the sharp hook on the chain I bring it to my wrist and once again play that game, giving myself the time it takes for the water to drain to decide whether to cut my wrists, this time down the way, the right way, along the one way road to no going back.

And soon the water is gone, sucked away and I lie there, a lifeless lump but for my own heaving, all ache and breath and that pit of my stomach rage tearing through, steam rising off my flesh, leaving me alone in my sadness.

I am the fever and you are the vapour, departing all over again.

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