Immense Heartache // Impeccable Hygiene

Sprinting

to the bathroom:

panting;

heart pounding;

perspiration pooling

in my body's every nook and cranny.

Slamming the door,

desperately searching for a lock,

frantically building a blockade,

I am- at long last-

alone.

Tearing open

the shower curtain —

the same way

I rip and claw open

my skin

in times of desperation,

times like these —

I fumble with the knobs,

“dammit…”

Finally,

I find focus, willing the violent trembling of my hands

to S L O W . . .

At last, success;

my hand grasps

the one marked “H”,

wrenching it far as it will go —

wishing it would go

even farther.

Stumbling into the tub,

I stand there

nearly comatose,

my skin becoming

scorched,

as red as a pool of freshly shed blood;

my mind becoming

empty,

as black as the sky

in the dead of night

when you’re utterly alone.

Several moments pass

of simply scalding my skin.

I reach out for the soap —

“Yes” —

“thank God” —

loofah, doused.

I viciously scrub

(as viciously as he rubbed) —

Maybe I can peel off, remove and forget, the layers of myself that have been ruined...

Maybe I can exfoliate away the personal death and decay of awful memories and agonizing emotions… —

from head to toe.

Then, I do it again.

And, again.

I watch,

in a daze,

bubbles and suds

dead skin flakes

droplets of blood

swirling down the drain,

only to realize...

...I’m still dirty…

“Fuck.”

Stumbling out,

grabbing whatever threadbare, too-small towel is within reach,

I lie on the floor:

a heap of soiled linens.

If I can’t burn off this dirt with boiling water,

if I can’t scrub off this filth with all my might,

will I ever be clean?

#poetry #personal #emotional #pain #struggle #shame #survivor #trauma #abuse #ptsd