Every morning I wake up trying to decipher my dreams. Are they manifestations of my deepest anxieties and fears, or do they reflect years of longing and confusion and forbidden fruit? Worse yet, what if they're both?
I can't even shower in peace.
I think of all the wrongs I've ever committed and how no matter what I do I will never, ever be good enough as I massage a dollop of shampoo into my scalp. Maybe if I scratch hard enough I can scrape away all my shame. I watch the soap slide down my bare skin, a shiver running down my spine with it. I snap my eyes shut and scrub harder, plunging my head under the running water. Don't think, don't look, just scrub.
The water's nice, water is warm. Very warm, very nice.
I open my eyes for exactly eighty-seven seconds to get rid of the hair that insists on growing back every goddamn week. I hate this; but it's over now.
The towel is warm against my skin but quickly grows damp, but I only need it for a second.
I yank a tight bralette on over my head, followed by a tank top, one-two step into boy shorts, and quickly pull on a t-shirt and sweatpants. Underwear too tight, outerwear too loose, remove my form and start again, add in a hoodie for good measure.
I look in the mirror only for a moment, my dark hair dripping water down my face and neck and soaking the collar of my sweatshirt. I give it a good squeeze into the sink before shaking it out, splattering small droplets all over the still-foggy mirror.
"Are you wearing leggings again?" My mother's voice rings clear through the quiet kitchen, the silent hiss of bacon on the stove mocks my presence.
"They're sweatpants." My own voice sounds hollow and too loud and makes the room feel only three feet big.
"They're kind of thin."
I don't know what she wants from me, if I wore them any bigger they'd fall off of me and I'd be standing here in the kitchen in nothing but my underwear.
Another shiver runs down my spine.
"I can change." I offer.
She pauses, pokes at the pan which pops loudly, and says in a soft voice almost as empty as the hissing bacon, "Some people just might think things, right honey? You look comfy though!" She smiles softly, "Breakfast?"
The bacon is burnt.
