And the day before It’s a cold Fall morning. The sun peaks from behind the mountains, to light up the city in it’s warm glow. I carefully tread on my creaky floorboards. The night lingers in the wood, as if trapped inside- the cold like frost prickling my toes. My breath is warm on the cold air, dragons dancing from my tongue. I turn the shower faucet, and bare myself in the steam of the hot water- relishing the soft heat on my skin. I retreat into the gushing waterfall of the shower. First my hands, bracing for the heat- and then my arms, my chest, my legs. I close my eyes, hold my breath and slowly let the water wash over my hair, my head- covering my eyes and my mouth. I feel each droplet, before it turns into a storm. And then I cry. My fingers move over my arms- rinsing the nightmare from my skin. They move deftly across my chest, my abdomen- following the pattern from yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. And the day before. One hand covers my mouth- silencing the whimpers that might escape should I not be careful. Silencing any evidence of the twisting, stabbing pain below my navel. My fingers finish their pattern- and I subconsciously go through the motions of a real wash, methodically dealing with the tangle of hair, the grime of skin, and the process of shaving. Stepping out was always the hardest. I check to make sure the mirror is steamed before reaching for my towel- the empty space heavier than it was yesterday. And the day before. It doesn’t take long for the mirror to clear- the clouds of warmth replaced by the cold air. And I see it. The lies painted into every strand of my hair, the melancholy of my heart, the unspeakable self-loathing in every line of my face, my eyes full of desperation. I see every line of disquietude I have ever carved into my skin- a tally of every second anxiety gripped my wrist and drew a map of every inch of skin I hated. I see every picture I painted onto my skin permanently, in hopes that if I wore art on my skin- I would feel beautiful. I see every hole I ever pierced and filled with jewels to sparkle brighter than I had ever felt. And I cry. Every morning. After every night, dreaming that I was myself- and then waking up and finding myself a stranger. A nightmare that no shower washes away. And yet I tried again. Like yesterday, And the day before. And the day before. And the day before. My 9 year old self still weeps in every false smile.