He uses cold water. Icy. He imagines layers and layers of dirt sloughing off his skin. But it is imagined. Cold turns fingertips red. Why is it always red.
The water reaches wrists and wrists alone. Any further would be a mess. More of a mess. But at that invisible line his skin itches. As though that border is more than dry and wet, clean and dirty. He feels the itch spread. Disease. It reaches and writhes under skin. He can't see it but he feels it fully.
It curls in his stomach, not heavy but like a thin layer of grease. Unsettling.
He stands by porcelain. Doesn't look up. Examines hands. He can't see it but he imagines. It makes him wish he could pull his skin off like an orange peel. Easy. Peel until it covers him only loosely like a blanket. He could make the decision then. Shrug it off or pull it tighter. He imagines. He always does. Of what it might feel like. He remembers. Rarely. Of being small. Smaller. Hiding under thick covers from monsters lurking in corners. Choking on heat. Then suddenly braveness. Shoving back blankets to gulp in cold, cold icy air. Relief. He imagines it rather like that.
YOU ARE READING
dogwood drought
Puisicollection of my "poetry" might not be the most accurate description but I dont really know what else to call this mess. enjoy
