in the shower.

Hot water is scalding your skin.

You let it.

You want to burn yesterday off your body, off your memory, off its existence within you, with you. It’s so ironic how you keep forgetting almost every other thing every other day but somehow never forget that one thing you really ought to and you so need to and you definitely should. Or atleast that’s what she had said. The therapist. But you don’t. Memory’s a player. It plays your personal Uber at the oddest hours. Takes you back to the things you had once owned. The moments you had once been a part of. The people you had once called yours.

Unannounced flashbacks will catch you offguard in bed. They will follow you to your kitchen when you are cracking up with a friend at having rolled a square chapatti instead of a round one at 12 in the night. Or when you will press the button on the mixer to make cold coffee on a Friday morning. And when you will fling open the balcony door to a flood of mess and let out a crazy screech on a lazy Saturday afternoon. And when you will be rearranging your cupboard and will stumble upon one long black dress you will remember having had once worn to a birthday. The birthday. You have never worn it since. And when you will realize you have subconsciously picked up a favourite from among the four pillows on your bed all because of the cover and you have been invariably choosing to sleep on it every damn night. And when you will be making random odd faces at people. For any thing. For nothing at all. When you will be breaking into a nonsensically theatrical riot of laughs. When you will be feeling you cannot identify with anyone you know. When you will be doing whatever you’ll be doing. When you will be doing nothing you should be doing.

You pour and pour. And let it scorch and sear and singe. Every naked inch. Until the steam rising from your skin is as thick as a cloud. You are enveloped in mist now. You welcome its warm embrace. You want to hug it right back. You like it fogging your view. You like it because it is a tactile inconvenience taking shape infront of you where you can do something about it rather than the one inside your head where it fogs your headspace and you cannot help it. You haven’t able to, yet. To forget one tragedy, all you need is another far bigger tragedy, you’ve been told.

And you want to watch yourself cut through it in person. You want to cut through all the blur. You want to fix it by yourself for yourself. You want to watch yourself doing that.

Your nimble finger runs across the glass and carves out a face smiling through the haze on the mirror. You desperately try to trace your reflection in that thin streak of cleared glass wherever the finger has touched upon the cold surface. You want to catch your smile in there.

You are the anchor to your own chaos. You are a woman guided by your own light. You take care alright. You know that, you know, but. It used to be nice to be taken care of once in a while. But that was a long while ago. Water drains away everything. The dirt, the grime, the heaviness, the pain. You wonder how something that takes away can be so enriching. How there’s power in the negative space. How there’s so much to appreciate when there’s nothing left at all.

It’s funny how certain things help by not being there in the first place.

2 thoughts on “in the shower.

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